


Going Under

by majorhtom



Series: Going Under [1]
Category: In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An au where labour won the election, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Birthdays, Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Cancer, Car Accidents, Christmas, Coma, Coma dreams, Funerals, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hiding Medical Issues, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it is Malcolm Tucker, Injury, Leukaemia, Leveson Inquiry, Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Maybe - Freeform, Medical Procedures, Mentioned Infant Death, Mentioned Stillbirth, More angst, Mugging, Phone Hacking, Politics, Referenced Alcoholism, Referenced Drug Abuse, Sickfic, Smoking, Stabbing, Summer, Swearing, UK Politics, What Did You Expect, angst as inspired by Lewis Capaldi, i might be projecting a little bit here, not as depressing as it sounds, only slightly, party conference season, semi accurate medical procedures, still more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorhtom/pseuds/majorhtom
Summary: “It started with tiredness.Malcolm looked at his papers and couldn’t process anything. His brain wouldn’t let him. He needed sleep, he knew that. He just didn’t want to admit it.”Labour won the general election in 2010, much to the surprise of everyone. Malcolm goes back to his job as the Labour spin doctor, but over the autumn, gets progressively sicker and is eventually diagnosed and hospitalised with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia, a rare and particularly aggressive blood cancer.He has to straddle the line between his sickness, his family, his friends and his work all while dealing with the side effects from his treatments and the medical interventions designed to save his life.The worst part? He has to watch the lives of his loves ones crumble around him while he and they all try so desperately to hold it together.





	1. Intro

Malcolm woke up and looked around. He was in his own bedroom in his own house. Yes and he was going to work that morning. He’d set his alarm earlier than usual because his routine had changed quite a bit. 

He got up out of bed, stroked his daughter’s urn and padded over to the bathroom where he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. He then proceeded to brush his teeth and wash himself with a sponge and a face towel. He didn’t have the energy to stand in a shower. Then again, he didn’t have the energy to do much of anything these days. 

He put his pyjamas back on and slowly carried on downstairs, holding the bannister handrail as he went. In the kitchen, was his sister, who helped him with feeding-which took longer than he would have liked, and dressing. 

It was at that point, he realised that all of his suits were now too big for him and he’d probably have to buy some new ones. At least for the time being. 

His niece and nephew were called up for breakfast before school started and he greeted them before he grabbed his walking stick and headed for Number 10. Only he took a car in rather than take his usual walk to the office. The near constant fatigue was a bitch.

He walked into the building leaning heavily on a walking stick, and realised he’d have to get a new ID card made now that he didn’t have any hair. 

He took the lift up to his office leaned his walking stick against the wall and sat down in his chair, almost in disbelief that he was back. He never thought he’d be back at Number 10, but here he was. Ready to pick up where he left off months ago. 

“Morning, Malcolm.” Sam greeted. “We’ve missed you around here.”

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded. “Was my replacement _nice_ or something?” His voice wasn’t the same thanks to him being ill, but it wasn’t weak or whispery. Just a bit raspy. 

Sam smiled. “Your replacement was Jamie. He’s a good attack dog. Not so good for issuing orders.” 

“Don’t tell him you said that.” Malcolm said. “He’ll have your head on a plate.” 

“He’s giving the morning briefing now.” Sam said. 

“Right.” Malcolm nodded. He’d expected that. He was just glad to be sharing his job with Jamie and not someone he _really_ fucking hated. 

“So, how are you?” Sam asked. 

“Weak. But getting better.” Malcolm admitted. 

“I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” Sam said. 

“Well, the good news is, I’m here.” Malcolm said. “I’m fine. Ish. And the even better news is that you’re not going to the funeral of one Malcolm F Tucker.” 

“But your middle name is Alasdair.” 

Malcolm sighed. “Yes it is.” 

“Is that it? You’re just better now?” 

“No.” Malcolm said. “I’m still in treatment. I’ll be going to the hospital weekly to have blood tests and transfusions. Maybe at the end of it all, I’ll need a stem cell transplant.”

“Stem cell transplant?” Sam frowned. 

“Yeah, Moira’s been tested and she’s a match.” Malcolm said. “Though if it happens, I’ll be on immunosuppressants for the rest of my life.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“Well, it might not even happen. So don’t worry about that right now. I’m not.” 

“I can imagine you have more important things on your mind.” Sam said. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “Nearly dying really _is_ the best thing to teach you to live in the fucking moment-not that I recommend it.” 

“Do you want me to help with the-“ Sam reached for the stack of newspapers.

“Nah I can read them myself.” Malcolm said. 

“Do you need a tea or a coffee?” 

Malcolm tapped the NG tube that was taped to his face. “Can’t.” 

“What _is_ that anyway?” Sam asked. 

“Feeding tube.” Malcolm replied. “I can’t eat anything, so nutrients are pumped into my stomach for me. I _can_ drink a bit of water though. So no tea or coffee. Just a cup of water. Thanks.” 

Sam nodded and walked out of the room.

Malcolm picked up the first newspaper on the pile, the Guardian, and began to read it.

* * *

A little later on, Malcolm grabbed his walking stick and decided to visit the ministers. To convince (bully) them into following the Party line and bollock them if they didn’t.

Most were very surprised to see him, let alone for him to be so intimidating in his condition. A sitting down Malcolm Tucker was just as terrifying as a standing up Malcolm Tucker when it came to doling out bollockings to government ministers who deserved it.

Finally, he made it to DoSAC. He was slower than usual, that was due to him not being able to walk very far without sitting and being unable to stand and take calls so he sat for them instead. But the big thing was that he actually did make it to DoSAC.

As he had with the other government departments, Malcolm looked around. He didn’t think he’d ever be back here. He hoped. But he didn’t expect anything. And just as with the other departments, something felt different. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but it just felt... _different_.

Ollie passed and took one look at Malcolm. “Sorry, this isn’t the old folks’ home, that’s in another part of the city-“

“Ollie, it’s me.” Malcolm said. “Malcolm Tucker.” 

Ollie stopped dead in his tracks. “Jesus Christ I thought you’d died or something. We _all_ thought you’d died.” 

“Well, I came close.” Malcolm admitted. 

“Nicola’s in her office.“ Ollie said.

“I know.” Malcolm said. “I’m here to see her. I’ve seen the other ministers. Nicola’s last on Tom’s list.”

“Jesus you’re here to _work_?!” Ollie asked. “In _that_ state?” 

“Oh what?” Malcolm said defensively. “People with cancer can’t work now?”

“No, I never said that-I just meant... I mean, of course people with cancer _should_ work-“

Malcolm interrupted Ollie. “That’s truly _amazing_, Ollie, I had no idea you were secretly a Tory. Must be all that shagging of that girlfriend of yours. Her right wing cryptofascistic beliefs are rubbing off on you.” 

“Well there’s fuck all wrong with you, is there?” Ollie said sarcastically. 

“Hey!” Malcolm exclaimed. “I have cancer! Keep digging yourself that hole though, you’re going to-“

“Malcolm Tucker.” Terri said in surprise. “You-you’re...” 

“I know, I know. I look awful. People have told me and contrary to popular opinion, I _am_ actually in the possession of mirrors.” Malcolm said. 

“You’ve been gone for _months_.” Terri said. “Rumours have been circulating.”

“What kind?” Malcolm asked. 

“The ‘not good’ kind.” Ollie said. 

“Well, either get me a fucking chair take me to Nicola and then get me a fucking chair.” Malcolm said. “I’m fatigued. I can’t stand for long.” 

“You’re completely bald.” Terri said. 

“Yeah, that’ll be because of the fucking cancer treatment.” Malcolm said. 

“You have _cancer_?!” Terri exclaimed. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re not making it up for attention?” Terri asked. 

“Why the fucking fuck would I do _that_?” Malcolm asked in disgust. 

“People _do_ make up having cancer.” Terri said. “For attention or monetary gain or-“

”I’m no Walter fucking Mitty, Terri.” Malcolm said. 

“I was thinking more Munchhausen’s.” Ollie said. 

“Oi.” Malcolm snapped. “Just you fucking watch it, you posh Oxbridge cunt.” 

“So you really _do_ have cancer then?” Terri asked. 

“You can’t make up this level of hair loss. I mean I have no fucking eyelashes. I have no fucking _pubes_.” Malcolm sighed. “I _really do_ have cancer, Terri, for real.”

“Oh no. How long do you have left to live?” Terri asked. 

“Longer than _you_ do if you don’t bring Nicola to me and get me a fucking chair.” Malcolm growled. 

Terri and Ollie parted to let Malcolm into the department and he made his way over to Nicola’s office, in his own time, being stared at by civil servants. He didn’t care or rather, he tried not to let it bother him, and he tapped on Nicola’s office door with the end of his walking stick and burst in anyway. 

“Jesus Christ, _Jamie_!” Nicola exclaimed. 

“I think you’ll find I’m _not_ Jamie.” Malcolm said. 

“I’m sorry, Malcolm.” Nicola said, not surprised in the least by Malcolm’s gaunt, pale and completely bald appearance. “I just assumed you were Jamie.” 

“_Malcolm_?” Helen’s eyes opened wide. “Oh my god.” 

“Yeah, that’s what _everyone’s_ saying.” Malcolm said. “Fucking find something new to say or keep your fat trap shut, right?” He turned to Nicola. “Stand up.” 

“Why?” Nicola asked.

“Just stand up, for fuck’s sake!” Malcolm said in exasperation.

Nicola stood up from the chair. 

Malcolm walked over to Nicola’s chair and sat down, putting his walking stick on Nicola’s desk.

At almost that point, Helen tried to stop him. “You can’t claim this office, it’s Nicola’s-“

“Yes it is.” Malcolm said. “But I am undergoing treatment for Leukaemia and it’s making me very fucking tired. Therefore, I need to sit down. Now tell me, how the fuck has this miserable fucking department coped without me?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that September is Blood Cancer Awareness Month? Well, if you didn’t, you do now.  
Symptoms of Leukaemia, particularly the acute Leukaemias are;  
-Tiredness/fatigue  
-Excessive bleeding  
-Nosebleeds  
-Bleeding from the gums  
-Frequent infections  
-Infections that won’t go away  
-Night sweats  
-Excessive sweating  
-Easy bruising  
-Unexplained weight loss  
-Looking really pale  
-Red spots that look like rashes  
-Fever/chills  
-Swollen lymph nodes  
-Bone pain  
And if progressed far enough  
-Seizures.  
Now. Onto the context and notes and stuff.  
In other stories, I (like others) have created a background for Malcolm. It’s not a pleasant one, but it explains how he came to live with his sister. And it involves a dead wife and a dead child. Like I said, not pleasant. But he now lives with his sister and her husband and their two children. If you don’t already know the backstory, you will.  
Yes, there is a lift in 10 Downing Street. Number 10 is huge. It’s bigger than it looks from the street and Google Earth. Think Mary Poppins’s handbag. Or the TARDIS.  
Why did I choose Alasdair for Malcolm’s middle name? I have reasoning here and it’s not just because it’s Scottish. Well, Malcolm Tucker is based on Alastair Campbell. And the proper spelling is Alasdair. Therefore, we have Malcolm Alasdair Tucker (I could have gone Malcolm Peter Tucker or Malcolm Peter Alasdair Tucker, based on Peter Mandelson, but I thought ‘Peter’ was a bit on the nose).  
No, it’s not a bone marrow transplant, it’s a stem cell transplant, but those stem cells do come from the bone marrow.  
NG tube-nasogastric tube. If you’ve never had anything shoved down your nose into your stomach, consider yourself lucky. It’s uncomfortable as fuck. But probably not as uncomfortable as being unable to eat. As Malcolm is.  
Ah, DoSAC. They’re used to being bossed around by Jamie and this is the first they’re hearing of Malcolm having cancer. But Nicola wasn’t surprised because she already knows.  
And as for the Major Character Death tag? You’re just going to have to wait.


	2. Tired Of Being So Exhausted

It started with tiredness. 

Malcolm looked at his papers and couldn’t process anything. His brain wouldn’t let him. He needed sleep, he knew that. He just didn’t want to admit it. 

“Sam!” He shouted. “I need a coffee!” 

Sam walked in almost at that exact moment with a cup of coffee. She set it down on Malcolm’s desk. 

“Thanks.” Malcolm said. 

“You look tired.” Sam said. 

“It’s just... the incompetent ministers that I have to run around after. Putting out their fires.” Malcolm picked the coffee up and had a sip. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Very.” Malcolm said. “If I wasn’t there, they’d say something stupid. I mean they say stupid things anyway, but it’d be worse. Because those fires would keep burning and, well, you get it.” 

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “Just make sure you get some sleep tonight.” 

“What are you, my GP?” Malcolm asked. 

“No. I just know you don’t sleep a lot.” Sam said. 

“Aye. I’m always on the look out for stupid things the ministers say and do. God even backbenchers sometimes.” 

“I’ve been with you for how long and they never seem to get any more competent despite the reshuffles.” 

“I... don’t remember.” Malcolm said. “I’m just so fucking tired.” He took another sip of the coffee. “Hopefully this’ll wake me up.” 

Sam nodded and left Malcolm’s office, letting him catch up on his work. 

* * *

The next morning, Sam walked into work to find a bit of a hubbub around Malcolm’s office. 

“What’s going on?” She asked. “Malcolm hasn’t been fired again, has he?”

“No.” A security guard replied. “He just never left the building last night.” 

“But he went home.” Sam argued. “I could have sworn he went home.”

“He didn’t.” One of the PM’s aides said. “Tom’s in there with him now.” 

“Can I get through?” 

“No, Tom wants it to be just the two of them. A one on one.” The security guard said. “Can’t say I blame him. It’s a bit weird that he spent the night in his office.” 

“Not really, I mean, didn’t he have work to catch up on?” Sam asked. 

“Yes, I suppose he had work to do, but he didn’t do the work.” The aide said. 

“I came into work and heard a noise from Malcolm’s office. I went in there, per my job details, and he was sleeping at his desk. When the PM got involved, he tried to cover it up.” The security guard said. 

“I can’t believe he didn’t go home. I was so sure he did.” Sam said. 

“Well, he didn’t.” The aide said. 

“And now we’re faced with this.” The security guard said.

The door to Malcolm’s office opened and a very disheveled looking Malcolm Tucker walked out, followed by Tom. 

“Go home, Malcolm. Take the day off. Get some sleep.” Tom said. It wasn’t an order, but it wasn’t a suggestion either. 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said, running a hand through his messed up hair. “Honestly, Tom.” 

“You’re not. You’re overworked and you need a day off.” Tom said. “Jamie can cover your duties for today. Your team is more than competent enough.” 

With that, Tom and his team walked away, chattering among themselves, leaving Malcolm, Sam and the security guard. 

“Malcolm.” Sam stepped forward. “Are you alright?” 

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded. “Just a wee bit tired.” He sighed. “Maybe Tom’s right. Maybe I need a day off.” 

“You’re going home now? For real?” 

“Yep.” Malcolm said. “And I’ll be back tomorrow, so don’t start any coups to overthrow me.”

Jamie came bounding down the hallway. “Hey, is it true, Malc?” 

“What?” 

“What they’re saying. Word in Number 10 is that you fell asleep in your fucking office last night. Did you?” 

“Yes.” Malcolm said. “Tom’s pretty much ordered me to take the fucking day off as a result.” 

Jamie snorted and smirked. “Come on, man. What kind of idiotic fuck fucking falls asleep at their fucking desk?”

“I just remember feeling tired.” Malcolm said. “And then the next thing I know... I was being woken up by fucking security.”

“So ye _are_ taking the day off?” Jamie asked. 

Malcolm looked down at his watch. “The fuck’s the time?” 

A brief look of concern passed across Jamie’s face. “It’s almost eight am.” He said. 

“I need to get ready for my meeting.” Malcolm said. 

“Malc. You’re taking the fucking day off.” Jamie said. “Remember? Fucking Tom told you to.” 

“Yep.” Malcolm said, not really paying attention. “Yeah.” 

“You sound tired.” Jamie said.

“I _am_ tired.” 

“You fucking fell asleep in your office last night.” 

“I was awoken by security.” 

“At fucking seven in the morning.” 

“That was an hour ago.” Malcolm argued. 

“Malc, mate, are you alright?” Jamie asked. 

“Yeah. Just...” Malcolm sighed and rubbed his face. “I’m fucking knackered, mate.”

“You had a full night’s sleep.” Jamie said. 

“In a fucking office chair at a fucking desk.” Malcolm said. “They’re uncomfortable for sleep, that’s why humans invented fucking beds. I don’t feel like I fucking slept at all last night.” 

* * *

A week later, Malcolm was still tired and sleep didn’t help. He spent the rest of the nights in his bed, rather than his office’s chair, but he was waking up tired. 

“Morning, Malc.” Jamie said, catching up to Malcolm on Whitehall on their way to Number 10. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm said. 

“You look like shit.” Jamie said. 

“I _feel_ like shit. I’m tired. Achy. And I fucking hate everything and everyone.” 

“You _always_ hate everyone though.” 

“Not usually in equal fucking measure.” Malcolm said. “There are some people I hate more than others. Like my bitch ex-girlfriend. Or fucking... Julius Nicholson. But now I hate everyone as much as I hate Julius Nicholson.” 

“And your bitch ex-girlfriend?” 

“Yes.” 

“What about me?” 

“Yes.” 

“What a fucking way to treat your best pal.” 

“I still haven’t forgotten that whole Nutter thing.” Malcolm tried to walk past a security guard at Downing Street, but was stopped as Jamie took out his ID badge. 

“Malc?” Jamie asked. 

Malcolm yawned and blinked rapidly. He was tired, but still he felt around in his pockets. “I feel like I didn’t get any sleep last night. I’m not fucking convinced I did. And I think I left my ID badge at home. Along with my fucking house keys.” 

Jamie tutted and shook his head. “Jesus, Malc.” 

“My sister’s there. But she’s working right now so unless my niece falls on the fucking playground at school and breaks her fucking arm, then I can’t get home.” Malcolm said. “Or to fucking work.”

“I’ll see Tom about this.” Jamie said. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. 

Jamie went through security and walked onto Downing Street. Malcolm craned his neck to watch him. 

“Come on, Joe. You know me. Let me through.” 

“I can’t do that, Tucker. You know the rules.” 

“I’m not _just_ anyone though. I’m Downing Street’s Director of Communications and Strategy.” 

“No ID, no Number 10.” 

“Malcolm?” 

Malcolm turned around to see Nicola Murray. “Yep.” 

“What’s going on? Why are you out here?” Nicola asked. 

“I, uh, I forgot my fucking ID like a div.” Malcolm said.

“You’re not a ‘div’, Malcolm.” Nicola said. 

“Ah this hasn’t happened before Nic’la.” Malcolm said. 

“It still doesn’t make you a div.” 

“What brings you to Number 10?” Malcolm asked. 

“Oh, I have an early morning meeting with Tom.” Nicola said. She took a closer look at Malcolm’s face. “You look tired. Long night?” 

“Er, yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “What gave it away?” 

“The dark circles under your eyes.” Nicola said. “They look worse. Almost like panda eyes. Shiners. You haven’t fractured your skull, have you?” 

“Not recently, no.” 

“Wait, so you have at some point in your life?” Nicola asked almost in disbelief. 

“Yes.” 

Nicola’s eyes widened and she nodded. She was learning more and more about the man who terrorised her office every day. 

“So you’re just tired then?” She asked. 

“It’s having to run around after you and all the other useless fucking ministers. Honest to fuck you’d think you’d have your fucking lives together. You know, being fucking _ministers_ and all. But do you fuck. And now, I have to run around putting out your fires because you’re too fucking... _incompetent_ to do it for yourselves.”

That _sounded_ like a Malcolm Tucker speech. Only there was something missing that Nicola couldn’t quite put her finger on because for some reason, it just didn’t sound intimidating enough.

“Malcolm.” A Number 10 security guard approached the gate to Downing Street from the inside. “I understand you’re locked out.”

“I forgot my ID at home and I can’t go back for it today.” Malcolm admitted. 

“Alright. Come on in.” He said. “Joe, let them through.” 

Joe sighed and let both Malcolm and Nicola through the gate. 

* * *

Malcolm made it a point to keep his ID in his jacket after that, but over the next few weeks, found he was getting out of breath on his regular walks to Downing Street. 

“Morning, Malcolm.” A Downing Street worker greeted as she passed him on the stairs. 

Malcolm, who was on his way to the Communications Department, simply nodded. He didn’t want it to be known that he was out of breath after climbing almost two flights of stairs. 

“Are you alright?” She asked. 

“Fine.” Malcolm said. “Sue.” He decided to speak in monosyllables as they betrayed his condition less than other words.

“As long as you’re sure.” Sue said.

Malcolm nodded again. “Yeah.” He gave an almost uncertain smile.

Sue quirked an eyebrow. Malcolm was speaking oddly and he was taking forever to climb the stairs. But he could smile and his face wasn’t drooping, so at least he probably hadn’t had a stroke on the staircase.

Malcolm put his hand to his mouth and coughed violently, gripping tightly to the hand rail with his other hand.

Sue looked on in concern. “You should get that cough seen to. It sounds like bronchitis and you don’t want it to turn into pneumonia.” 

“‘M fine.” Malcolm said. He was annoyed. He’d been trying to keep that cough secret for over a week now. But at least he now had a valid reason to be out of breath. “A’m nae dyin’.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not... dying-” Malcolm started to cough again. “Seas’nal.” 

Sue nodded. Coughs, colds, the flu. They were all things to be expected in November. “Just don’t pass it on to me.” 

Malcolm nodded and she pushed past him. 

“Get well soon.” She said, going down the stairs. 

Malcolm tried to take a deep breath, but it burned and rattled his lungs. There was some kind of infection. Maybe he’d ask Tom for the morning off to get it seen to. Or maybe not. It _was_ November, after all. And these kinds of infections were common. 

Malcolm made his way up the rest of the stairs and to his office. 

“Morning, Sam.” He greeted his PA.

“Morning, Malcolm.” Sam greeted. She paused her sorting of Malcolm’s daily newspapers, when she noticed something. “You uh... you’ve got...” she tapped her nose. 

Malcolm frowned and brought his hand to his face, pulling it away when he felt something wet. Blood covered his fingertips. “Fuck. Shit.” He pinched his nose and put his head forward. “Sam! Get me a fucking-get me tissues, _please_. Now.”

Malcolm hurried into his office and sat down in his chair while Sam rushed out to look for tissues. He could see blood seeping through his fingers, the nosebleed was pretty aggressive.

After what felt like forever, but was probably only less than a minute, Sam came in with a box of tissues, just as Malcolm was struggling to stem the bleeding. His desk had a small puddle of blood and his hands were red. 

“Oh my god.” Sam exclaimed. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm reached for the tissues. 

It was easy for Sam to see that almost his entire lower face was bloody and the blood was trickling down onto his white shirt and soiling it. “Holy shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t handle this yourself, can you?” 

“No.” Malcolm said. “All I can taste is fucking blood.” 

“It _does_ looks extreme, Malcolm.” Sam said. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“Over a nosebleed?!” Malcolm coughed again, spraying spots of blood while it kept dripping down to his shirt. He tried to catch his breath and leaned back in his chair.

“That cough sounds awful, Malcolm.” Sam said. 

“Blood aspiration.” Malcolm grabbed some tissues. 

Sam grabbed a handful of tissues herself and pressed them up to Malcolm’s nose.

“Fuck. Fuck me.” Malcolm said as together, they worked to stem the bleeding. 

* * *

Malcolm spent the rest of the day with blood on the collar of his shirt that he tried to hide from the ministers, the civil servants, the PM and just about everyone else. 

Coming come from work that night, he was greeted by his sister, Moira. 

“Malc, you look tired.” Moira said. 

“I am _very_ tired.” Malcolm said. “Idiot ministers seem to be messing up more than usual.” 

He brought his hand to his mouth and coughed violently.

“Oh, that sounds bad.” Moira put her hand to his forehead. “And you feel hot.” 

“I’ll just take some fucking Robitussin.” Malcolm said. “You have some left after Ellie got a cough, right?” 

“I think you caught it.” Moira said. 

“You’re probably right.” Malcolm took his jacket off and walked into the living room, only to sit down on the sofa.

Ellie crawled over to him. “Uncle Malcolm, why is there blood on your there?” She tapped the collar of his shirt. 

“Because I had a nosebleed today.” Malcolm answered.

“Adults don’t get nosebleeds.” Ellie said. 

“Adults _do_ get nosebleeds.” Malcolm said. 

“Someone finally punch you in the face then, eh Malc?” Moira’s husband Dan asked. 

“No. Nobody punched me in the face.” Malcolm said. “And shouldn’t you be at Gatwick ready to fly out to Vegas or something?” 

“No, because I work at Heathrow and I’m flying out to San Francisco _tomorrow_.” Dan said. “I’m covering for another pilot whose daughter’s just been born early.” 

“Congrats to him.” Malcolm muttered and then lapses into another coughing fit, struggling for breath. 

“Oh, Malc.” Dan stood from the armchair and slapped Malcolm on the back. 

“I’m going to bed.” Malcolm rasped. 

“We got you a McDonalds.” Ellie said. 

“I’m not hungry, love.” Malcolm patted Ellie’s head. He turned to Dan. “I assume Keir is already in bed.” 

“Yeah.” Dan nodded. 

“Right.” Malcolm stood up. “Wake me up in the morning.” He left the room and walked up the stairs slowly and holding onto the bannister railing for balance as he coughed. 

As Moira watched her brother climb the stairs and coughing, she became convinced he was back on drugs or alcohol somehow. She made a mental note to have a quick talk with him about that the next chance she got. 

* * *

The next day, in a meeting with the PM, Malcolm had another nosebleed. That was when the usually unobservant Tom Davis noticed something that Malcolm obviously hadn’t. 

“You’re looking really white, Malcolm.” 

“Of course I’m fucking _white_, Tom,” Malcolm was holding his head down and pinching his nose, but despite all the tissues, blood was still dripping everywhere, “I _am_ white. Ethnically, I mean.” 

“I’m not talking about ethnically.” Tom said. “You’re just extremely pale. Are you sick?” 

Malcolm scoffed. “No.” 

“Only you look anaemic or some shit.” Tom said. “And that cough is worrying.”

“I’m fine, Tom. I’m just busy. Run down. You and your cabinet are all incompetent. I have to put out their fires.” Malcolm let go of his nose and checked for blood with a clean tissue. Nothing. “Alright, I’ll see you later.” He said. “Shit to do, people to bollock.” He stood up and walked (stumbled) out feeling really lightheaded. 

He made it back to his office just fine though and took off his jacket, which now had blood on it, and hung it up at the back of his chair. 

No sooner had he done that, Sam walked in. “Malcolm, I just had a call from-“ she stopped in her tracks taking a look at him. “What happened to you?” 

“It’s nothing.” Malcolm waved dismissively. “Just a little nosebleed.” 

“Looks more than little to me.” Sam said. 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said. 

“Not like yesterday’s?” Sam asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

“No.” Malcolm said.

“I’ll take your word.” Sam said. 

“What were you saying?” Malcolm asked, rolling his sleeves up. 

Sam caught sight of an unpleasant and painful looking bruise on Malcolm’s arm. It was so dark it almost looked black. “What happened there, then?” She asked, pointing to it.

Malcolm turned his arm and looked at it. “Oh. I don’t know.” He admitted. “Must have done it in my sleep. What were you saying about a call?” He asked. 

“It’s DoSAC.” Sam said. 

Malcolm sighed. “Of course it fucking is.” He didn’t have enough time to cover his mouth before he broke out in another violent coughing fit. 

“Jesus, Malcolm.” Sam exclaimed. 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said between coughing. “Go on.”

“Alright. Well, DoSAC called because according to Nicola Murray, there’s a problem with some stats and going over budget.” Sam said. 

“Fuck me.” Malcolm shook his head as he recovered from the coughing fit. “I’ll go over there now.” He completely forgot his jacket on his chair and walked out of the room. 

Going down the stairs he felt so dizzy he almost fell down them and into Jamie. 

“Steady on, Malc.” Jamie said, propping Malcolm up with a chuckle. He stopped and frowned in concern when he noticed how little colour Malcolm had in his face. Also the ugly black bruise on his arm. And the bloody nose. 

“You uh, you’ve got a little nosebleed, Malc.” 

“Fuck.” Malcolm rubbed under his nose. Sure enough there was a steady trickle of blood. “_Fuck_.” He repeated. 

“Malc, what’s the matter?” Jamie asked. 

“Nothing.” Malcolm said. “I’m just stressed. Feeling a bit run down.” 

Jamie nodded, not quite believing him. “Alright. Need any help with your nosebleed?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” Malcolm pinched his nose. 

“You sure?” Jamie asked. “Only it looks pretty bad from where I’m standing.”

“Yep. Just fine.” Malcolm pushed past Jamie, grabbed the handrail of the stairs and headed back down. 

* * *

Malcolm arrived at DoSAC ten minutes later and with a much bloodier shirt. 

“Malcolm, good to see you.” Ollie greeted. 

Helen raised en eyebrow. “Is that _blood_?” She asked. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm said. “I was beating up this fucker on the Shadow Cabinet and some of his blood sprayed on me. So where’s the fire?” 

“Malcolm.” Nicola came out of her office. “Holy shit. Have you lost weight? You look terrible.” 

“I feel fine.” Malcolm lied. “Come on. Take me to your problem and I might not give you shit for it.” 

“You’re going to give us shit anyway, though aren’t you, Malcolm?” Helen asked. 

“Your damn fucking right I am.” Malcolm said. 

“Where’s your jacket?” Nicola asked. 

“Fuck am I not-“ Malcolm felt for his jacket, but Nicola was right, he wasn’t wearing one. “Fuck.” 

“And what’s _that_?” Nicola asked, holding Malcolm’s left arm up. “Did a pen explode all over your arm?” 

Ollie adjusted his glasses and moved in for a closer look. “That’s a bruise.” 

“Yeah, the Shadow Cabinet fuck put up a fight.” Malcolm said. 

“Are those pit stains?” Terri asked as she joined the group.

“Like I fucking said. I got into a fight.” Malcolm said. “I’m fine. Nicola, let me go and tell me what the fuck the problem is.” 

“The problem is the immigration stats.” Terri said, holding up a laptop. “Ollie was showing us the stats on his computer and it showed that...” 

Malcolm stopped listening. Not for lack of interest, but because all he could hear was a high pitched whine in his ears. 

“Malcolm, are you listening?” Terri asked. 

“He’s just staring.” Ollie said. “Malcolm? Malcolm? Are you okay?” 

Malcolm swayed on the spot, before his eyes shut and he fell forwards and rather awkwardly into Nicola’s arms knocking her off guard and causing her to stumble backwards slightly, but she still, luckily, managed to catch him before he faceplanted on the floor. 

“What the fuck.” Nicola exclaimed. “Malcolm, this isn’t funny.” 

No response. 

“Malcolm?” Nicola asked. 

“Malcolm.” Ollie gently shook Malcolm’s shoulders. “Are you okay? Do you know where you are?” 

It quickly became evident that Malcolm was no longer conscious. 

Terri dropped the laptop. “Oh my god.”

Robyn rushed to her desk and reached for the phone. “Should I call an ambulance?” 

“Er, not right now.” Nicola said as she eased Malcolm’s unconscious body onto the floor. 

“Is he faking this for attention?” Helen asked. “Is this the kind of thing he does?” 

“I’ve been working with him for about five or six years now and I’ve _never_ known him to do this.” Ollie said. “God I wish Glenn hadn’t run off to join the Liberal Democrats. He knew Malcolm better than I do.” 

“Malcolm?” Nicola asked. “Malcolm, can you hear me?” 

“Check his breathing.” Helen said. 

“Ooh yes.” Nicola said. She brought her ear close to Malcolm’s face to see if she could hear him breathing and if she could feel his breath. She released a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding when she realised he was still breathing. 

“He’s breathing.” She said. 

“That’s great.” Ollie said. 

“He’s not dropped down dead of a heart attack. He’s probably just fainted then.” Helen said. 

“He _did_ loose some blood earlier.” Terri leaned over Malcolm and pointed to the blood staining his shirt and tie. “Maybe that’s what caused it.” 

“If that’s the case, wouldn’t we _need_ to call an ambulance?” Robyn asked. “In case he goes into shock?” 

Ollie scoffed incredulously. “Robyn, you know people faint when they give blood and overwork themselves, right? It doesn’t mean-look, Malcolm’s _not_ dying.” 

“You can’t say that for sure, Ollie.” Robyn said. 

“He probably isn’t, Robyn.” Nicola said. “You know what he’s like. He puts the Party before himself.” 

“Overwork?” Helen asked. 

“Yep.” Nicola loosened Malcolm’s tie and pulled it over his head. “That’s exactly what he’s like.” She opened the top buttons of his shirt. “He’s nearly constantly angry.”

“Well, I have known him to loosen up on occasions. But few and far between.” Ollie said. “Usually Christmas and New Year and office parties. For an ex-alcoholic, he loosens up pretty well.” 

“He’s an alcoholic?” Nicola asked. 

“As far as I know, he’s been sober since 2001.” Terri said. “After he fell deathly ill-“

“Please don’t say ‘deathly ill’, Terri, it’s making me nervous.” Robyn said, still hovering by the phone. 

“Alright, someone help me get him in the recovery position.” Nicola said. 

Helen leaned in to help, but noticed something on Malcolm’s chest and unbuttoned the shirt further. “Robyn, can you get me a glass or something?” 

“Why?” Robyn asked. 

“Just do it please.” Helen said urgently, but trying not to evoke a sense of panic.

Robyn nodded and left her post of watching the telephone. 

“What have you seen?” Nicola asked, taking a quick look. “Oh my god. Ollie.”

“What’s-Jesus.” Ollie’s eyes widened. “The fuck is _that_?” 

“It’s a rash.” Terri said. 

“It looks like a Meningitis rash.” Nicola said. “I thought he already caught that.” 

“You _can_ get it twice.” Ollie said. “And Malcolm’s been pretty run down recently. Have you heard that cough of his? I’m worried that every time he has a coughing fit, I’ll hear the death rattle that’ll be the end of Malcolm Tucker.” 

“Stop it, Ollie.” Nicola said sternly. “He’s clearly sick.” 

Robyn returned with a small glass and handed it to Helen. “Oh my god.” She exclaimed on seeing the purple-red spots covering Malcolm’s chest. “What _is_ that?” 

Helen pressed the glass over Malcolm’s skin. 

“I’m going to call an ambulance.” Robyn said. 

“No don’t!” Helen said. “It’s going.” 

“I thought if it went, to call an ambulance?” Robyn asked. 

“No. It’s if it _doesn’t_ go to call an ambulance.” Ollie said. “He’s not got Meningitis. He’s fine.”

“Well, he’s unconscious on the floor, Ollie, he’s clearly not _that_ fine.” Helen said. 

“Alright, Helen, help me get him into the recovery position.” Nicola said. “Robyn, can you go and get him some water for when he wakes up, please? And if he doesn’t wake up soon, you have my permission to call an ambulance.”

* * *

The next thing Malcolm knew was that he was lying on his side on the floor of the DoSAC offices in the recovery position. 

“Don’t get up, Malcolm.” Nicola said. “You’ve had a funny turn.”

“I don’t know.” Malcolm said, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “What happened?” 

“You fainted.” Ollie said. “Robyn wanted to call an ambulance, but everyone else just reckons you’ve been pushing yourself too hard.” 

“You’re killing yourself through overwork.” Helen said. 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm insisted. “I can’t take a break anyway. You’re all too fucking incompetent to go on without me. You and every other fucking department.” He realised the top buttons on his shirt had been opened and he was down a tie. “Where the fuck’s my tie?” 

“We took it off after you fainted.” Ollie said. 

Malcolm nodded. “Okay.” 

“Yeah, it’s on Robyn’s desk.” Helen said.

“Malcolm, you are aware of a purple pinprick rash on your chest, aren’t you?” Nicola asked. “Robyn was convinced it was Meningitis. But when we put a glass on it, it disappeared.” 

“That’s good.” Malcolm nodded. 

“You’re not fine though.” Nicola said. 

“You’re overworking yourself.” Helen said.

“_And_ you’re probably anaemic.” Ollie added. “Because you are quite pale.”

“That might be from the funny turn though.” Helen suggested. 

“Yeah, just go and get your blood done with your GP.” Nicola said. “Maybe they can put you on iron tablets or something.” 

“Mhm.” Malcolm said. 

Robyn knelt down by Malcolm holding a plastic cup of water. “Here. Drink this.” She said. 

“Is it supposed to make me feel better?” Malcolm asked, though he took the cup anyway. “Some kind of fucking cure-all fainting tonic?” 

Robyn stood up and slunk away. “I just-it’s just-“

“I’m fine.” Malcolm took a sip of the water. “See? Just fucking fine. Someone get me a chair and talk to me about these botched fucking stats.” 

* * *

The next day, Malcolm _did_ go to the doctor. Then he went to work. Sorted out a few catastrophes. Got back to ten messages from his doctor, earlier ones telling him to call back and later ones to go to the hospital, which he did. 

Malcolm arrived at St Thomas’s hospital and walked into the A&E Department. 

“Er, I’m Malcolm Tucker. I was told to come here by my GP.” Malcolm said. 

The receptionist checked his computer and nodded. “Yes you’re, um...” he cleared his throat. “I’ll call the doctor.” 

“What’s going on?” Malcolm asked. 

“Please wait over there.” The receptionist directed Malcolm to the waiting area. 

Malcolm looked in confusion at the receptionist and walked to the waiting area and took a seat next to a mother with her young son, bouncing him on her knee. 

The mother did a double take when she saw Malcolm. “You’re one of those politics men.”

“I’m the Director of Communications and Strategy for Downing Street.” Malcolm said. 

“I didn’t know politicians got sick or hurt.” She said. “I always thought you weren’t human.” 

“Well, I do get sick and hurt because I’m not a politician, I’m an advisor.” Malcolm said. 

“Mr Tucker.” The doctor said. 

Malcolm stood up again. It worried him that the doctor had been contacted so quickly, and had found him so quickly. 

“Please, follow me.” 

Malcolm said nothing, the doctor said nothing. A porter came with a wheelchair, which Malcolm refused. He simply followed the doctor down the corridors to a crowded bay with very few beds.

“Could you please sit down?” The doctor asked. 

Malcolm looked at where the doctor was pointing. “On the bed?” 

The doctor nodded. “Yes.” 

“Am I being admitted?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s wrong with me?” Malcolm asked. 

“Please sit down, Mr Tucker.” 

“Am I dying?” 

The doctor said nothing and his face remained neutral. 

Malcolm slowly lowered himself down on the bed.

“Thank you.” The doctor said and closed the curtain around the bed. 

“What’s going on?” Malcolm asked. 

“Mr Tucker, my name is Dr Rutter.” He said. “Now you’ve been called here because abnormalities have been detected in your blood test.” 

“What kind of abnormalities?” Malcolm asked. Then the penny dropped. “You’re an oncologist, aren’t you? I have cancer, don’t I?” 

“Well, we can’t say because it wouldn’t be right to cause you undue worry.” Dr Rutter said. “But we are going to carry out some tests. Just to rule certain things out.”

“What cancer do you think I have?” Malcolm asked. 

“I’m a haematologist, not an oncologist, I can’t say-“

“If I’m going to be poked and prodded with needles then I think it’s my business to know what you’re testing me for.” Malcolm said.

“I’m a _haematologist_, so we’re looking at something in your blood.” Dr Rutter said. 

“Like Lymphoma?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it might not be.” Dr Rutter replied. “Your symptoms are pretty vague and can be found in other conditions. We just want to rule anything nasty out for certain.” 

* * *

The next afternoon, Malcolm was sitting in a bed in his own room on the haematology ward. He was wearing a hospital band on his arm and a hospital gown. He had been poked with needles and had blood taken. He’d also had a local anaesthetic, been forced on his side and had bone marrow sucked from his hip. And he’d been forced to lie on his side again while he had a lumbar puncture. That had been quite painful because the anaesthetic had started to run out. He’d actually _screamed_. 

He was feeling incredibly battered and bloody and bruised on top of very _very_ tired. 

Then Dr Rutter walked in. “Mr Tucker, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but you have Leukemia. My colleagues will be here to answer any questions you may have, but you need to go home right now and pack some things you might need for your hospital stay. Once you’ve done that, come straight back to the oncology department. You need to start treatment right away.”

Malcolm sat there, stunned into silence as Dr Rutter walked away for him to get dressed. After a few minutes, Malcolm stood up from the bed and took his clothes, his suit, put it back on, and headed out the door to leave the hospital. 

Still with his hospital band on, once he was on Westminster Bridge, he took out his phone and called a number. “Tom. Yeah, it’s me. Where have I been? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Malcolm sighed. “Look, Tom, you know how the other day I had a nosebleed and you said I looked anaemic? Yeah, it’s a little bit worse than anaemia and I think I might be offering up my resignation right now.” 

“_Malcolm? What is it? Are you okay_?” Tom’s voice came from down the phone. 

“Tom... I’ve just been diagnosed with Leukemia.” Malcolm said, still almost in a state of shock. 

“_Oh my god_.” 

Malcolm sighed. “Yeah.” He said and hung up. 

He made his way home and opened the front door to see his sister Moira waiting for him. 

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” She hissed angrily. 

“Not now, Moira.” Malcolm said. 

“I heard messages from your GP on the answer machine telling you to call him back.” Moira said. “You didn’t come home last night. And now you’re wearing your work clothes and just where have you been?” 

Malcolm shed his jacket, pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. “Not now.” 

“No, I’d like to know _now_.” Moira said. 

Malcolm kicked his shoes off and took his shirt off.

“What’s that?” Moira asked, referring to the dressing on his lower back. 

“Lumbar puncture.” Malcolm said, pulling his trousers down. 

“And _that_?” Moira gently touched the ugly black bruising around Malcolm’s hip. 

“Needles.” 

“You’re injecting, aren’t you?” Moira asked.

“From _blood tests_.” Malcolm said. “Be reasonable.” 

Moira grabbed Malcolm’s wrist to examine the hospital band that gave his NHS number, sex, date of birth, full name and address. 

“They don’t say why I was admitted, Moira.” Malcolm said. 

“Why _were_ you admitted?” Moira asked, much more gently this time, turning to face her brother. 

“Moira. I’ve got cancer.” Malcolm said. 

“No.” Moira shook her head. “No you don’t.” 

“I’ve been told to pack my bags and go back to St Thomas’s.” Malcolm said. “I’m probably going to be there a while.” 

“You don’t have cancer, Malcolm-you _can’t_ have cancer!” Moira said. “Stop lying! It’s _disgusting_ and morally reprehensible to _fake_ cancer!” 

“I’ve got Leukemia, Moira.” Malcolm said. “You can come down with me to the oncology department if you don’t believe me.” 

“Please. Don’t lie.” Moira’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t want it to be true. She didn’t want it to be true so badly that she was willing to believe it wasn’t true. 

His eyes met his younger sister’s. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re back on the alcohol aren’t you?” Moira asked. “The coke? The heroin?” 

Malcolm put his arm around Moira and kissed her on the head. He went up the stairs to his room, shut the door after him and sat on the floor, resting against the door. 

“Malcolm!” Moira pounded on the door. “Open the door! Don’t take the cocaine! Or the Speed! Or whatever drug you’re about to take is!” 

“Chemotherapy.” Malcolm muttered to himself. He stood up and picked up his daughter’s urn, stroking it gently. 

Almost at that moment, Moira burst in. “Did you just-? Hiding drugs in your daughter’s urn. That’s fucking _sick_, Malcolm.” She grabbed the urn. 

“Let her go!” Malcolm cried out, grabbing the urn back, a little too aggressively. “You’re just fucking lucky that she didn’t spill.” 

“She? Your gendered your drugs?” 

“_She_ is my _daughter_, Moira!” Malcolm shouted. “My Maisie!” He sighed. “Look, I’m _not_ back on drugs. Or alcohol. I promise.” He put the urn back on the dressing table and gently put his hand on it. “I’m being serious, Moira. I have Leukaemia. I was just at St Thomas’s. Dr uh... Dr Rutter saw me. Why else would I have had all these blood tests, a lumbar puncture and a fucking bone marrow extraction?” 

“No.” Moira wiped her eye. “No. No, Malc. No. Wha-what do I tell Ellie and Keir a-and Dan? It can’t be true-you _have_ to be on the drugs again.” 

“Help me pack.” Malcolm said in little more than a whisper. 

Moira examined her brother in his near naked state and she could see it for herself. He’d lost a _lot_ of weight. There was ugly bruising over parts of his body. Purple rashes. Then there was the nosebleeds, the bleeding gums when he brushed his teeth, the paper cuts that seemingly bled forever, the violent cough that wouldn’t go away and him having to wash his pyjamas and bedding every night because of sweating.

Moira collapsed down to her knees. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her brother. Not to _Malcolm_. He was too _important_. Too important to the government, too important to Ellie and too important to her for him to... he _couldn’t_ die. 

She looked up at her brother who was packing a backpack with comfortable clothes and pyjamas and pulled herself to her feet. Malcolm needed her. 

She walked out of Malcolm’s bedroom and went down the stairs where her mobile phone was on the kitchen table. She picked it up, calling her husband, who would be flying soon, if not now. If it was now, she’d leave a message. 

But luckily, Dan answered. 

“_Hey, Moira_.” He greeted cheerfully. 

“Malcolm has cancer.” She blurted out. 

“_I’m sorry? **What**?_” Dan asked. 

“Malcolm. My brother.” Moira said. “He’s got cancer.” 

“_This is some kind of **joke**, isn’t it?_” Dan asked. 

“He just came home with... with a hospital band on. And gauze pads taped to his back and his hip.” Moira wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “He’s got to pack a bag and go right back to St Thomas’s for treatment and I just accused him of _using_ again.” She couldn’t stop the tears from falling. 

“_Holy shit._” Dan exclaimed. “_What kind of cancer_?” 

“Leukaemia, he said.” Moira said. 

“_What type?_” Dan asked. 

“There are _different_ types?” Moira asked. 

“_I’m guessing if he has to go back now, it’s an acute Leukaemia, rather than a chronic type._”

“How do you know this?” 

“_I’m a pilot._” Dan answered. “_I meet Make-A-Wish kids going to Disney all the time_.” 

“I’ve got to pick the kids up from school.” Moira said. “But I can’t just _leave_ Malcolm.” 

“_Call my sister._” Dan said. “_Go be with Malcolm_.”

“But the kids-“

“_Ellie’s eight and Keir is four. They’re old enough to go without you for an afternoon_.” Dan assured her. “_They’re fine, they’re healthy. Your brother is **not**. And he needs you_.” 

Moira swallowed hard as she heard Malcolm’s coughing fit upstairs. “Yeah.”

“_I’ll be home tomorrow morning_.” Dan said. 

“Safe flight.” Moira said.

“_You know it._” Dan said. “_Tell Malc I hope he’s okay.**”**_

Moira hung up the phone and put it back down. “Malcolm! Do you need any help up there?” 

There was a massive thud, which caused Moira to run upstairs, worried that Malcolm had collapsed. When she opened the door, however, she not only found Malcolm still standing and now fully dressed in jeans, a blue t-shirt and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, but he’d dropped his bag on the floor and clothes had spilled everywhere.

“Oh my god.” Moira rushed to her brother and put her arms around him. “I thought you’d collapsed.” 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said. 

“You have cancer.” Moira said. 

“Besides the cancer, I’m fine.” Malcolm said. 

“I’ll pick this up for you.” Moira said, kneeling down on the floor. She began to pile the clothes back in the bag. 

“I should be getting to the hospital.” 

“I’m coming with you.” Moira picked up Malcolm’s bag. It _was_ kind of heavy. 

“You have kids.” Malcolm argued.

“They don’t need me right now, but my brother does.” Moira said. “I’m coming with you.” 

* * *

They took a taxi back to the hospital. On the way, Moira called Dan’s sister to explain the situation and ask her to look after the kids. 

Once they got there, Moira paid the cabbie and grabbed Malcolm’s bag. 

“I’m not an invalid.” Malcolm complained. 

“I’m going this for you.” Moira said. “It’s okay.” 

“But I’m-“

”Please.” Moira said.

Malcolm got out of the taxi and they went inside. 

“Where’s oncology?” Moira asked, looking around. She turned around to Malcolm when she had no reply and found him collapsed on the floor. “Malcolm!” She knelt down to him. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” 

* * *

Malcolm awoke in a hospital bed wearing a new band and a gown. In his hand, there was an IV line, so he couldn’t move it far. He looked up at what it was to find a bag of blood. 

“You’re having a blood transfusion, Malc.” Moira said. She was standing over him, just watching. “You’re anaemic. That’s why you keep fainting.” 

“Of course I’m anaemic.” Malcolm said. “I’ve got a blood cancer.” 

“I’ve met your oncologist.” Moira said. “She’s very nice.” 

“I’ve got my own room.” Malcolm noticed. 

“Yeah. Moira nodded. “It’s got nothing to do with you being a senior government figure and everything to do with you being a Leukaemia patient.” She took a deep breath. Those words stung to say, even if they hadn’t quite sunk in yet. 

“I’m going to be here a while, aren’t I?” Malcolm asked. 

“Probably.” Moira said. “But I’m _always_ going to be here for you. You’re my brother and I love you.” 

“I love you too, Moira.” Malcolm said. “My little sister.” 

“It should be me.” Moira said. 

“No.” Malcolm shook his head. “No it shouldn’t. I’m _glad_ it’s me. It’s probably what I deserve for popping all them sleeping pills and snorting cocaine and heroin and excessively drinking-“

”Malcolm, you’re more than that now.” Moira said. “And you were more than that _then_. _Nobody_ deserves cancer.” 

As if on cue, a black woman wearing a lab coat with her hair tied back walked in carrying a thin file. 

“It’s good to see you awake.” She said with a smile. “You must be Malcolm. I’m Dr Thomas and I’ll be your oncologist for the foreseeable future.” 

“Not filled with confidence here, Moira.” Malcolm said. 

“I’ve already met your sister.” Dr Thomas said. “From what she tells me, you two are very close.” 

“Yeah.” Malcolm said. 

“Having someone to support you is always important when going through cancer treatment.” Dr Thomas said. “It’s not a nice thing to have to go through.” 

“I wouldn’t know yet.” Malcolm said. 

“Alright.” Dr Thomas opened the file. “I see here that you’ve received a diagnosis of Leukaemia. The subtype is Acute Myeloid Leukemia, were you told that?” 

Malcolm shook his head. “I might have. But I switched off after I was told I had cancer.“ 

“Alright, that’s common. It’s just a shock to the system. You shut down to protect yourself emotionally and it’s hard to process things, so it’s a good thing your sister’s here with you right now.” Dr Thomas looked at Malcolm. “So AML in general doesn’t have a great prognosis, I’m sorry to tell you, what with it being a rare and rather aggressive cancer. But your specific subtype is AML FAB Type M2, that’s Acute Myeloid Leukaemia with maturation, which _does_ offer a better prognosis in those under the age of sixty.” 

“Are you telling me I’m going to _die_?” Malcolm asked. 

“It’s a possibility. It’s always a possibility with treating cancer.” Dr Thomas said bluntly. “But with your specific subtype of Leukaemia offers you a better chance of going into remission. But in order for that to happen, we need to start treatment as soon as possible.” 

“How soon?” Moira asked. 

“Before the end of the week.” Dr Thomas said. 

“It’s Thursday now.” Malcolm said.

”So before Sunday, we aim to already have started you on your first round of chemotherapy.” Dr Thomas said. “And of course you _will_ have to stay here while we treat you.”

“Malcolm.” Moira rubbed his arm gently. 

“You said I had Acute whatever Leukaemia with maturation.” Malcolm said. “Maturation of what?”

”Leukaemia cells.” Dr Thomas said. 

“Okay.” 

“Your white cell count is also quite high.” Dr Thomas said. “It’s not the highest I’ve seen, but it’s pretty high. That also goes against you with regards to treatment.” 

“What happens then?” Malcolm asked. 

“Well, we’re going to carry on with the blood transfusion and give you a central line tomorrow morning.” Dr Thomas said. “Then hopefully on Saturday, we’ll start you on the chemotherapy drugs. There will be two phases; induction and consolidation.” She explained. “Induction is where we get you in remission and consolidation is where we stop the Leukaemia from coming back. For your induction phase, we’ve chosen the drugs cytarabine and daunorubicin-“

”What drugs are they?” Moira asked. 

“Cytarabine is a chemotherapy drug used to treat Leukaemia and it will be administered through the central line-the one we’re putting in tomorrow. There will be side effects, including a risk of infection, bruising, bleeding, vomiting, diarrhoea, tiredness, hair loss, dizziness, sores in the mouth, skin rashes, changes to the eye-“

”Still more preferable to death.” Malcolm said. 

“Yes it is.” Dr Thomas said with a nod.

“What about the other drug?” Moira asked. 

“Daunorubicin is another drug used to treat Leukaemia.” Dr Thomas answered. “The side effects are similar to the cytarabine. Only after receiving daunorubicin you might urinate and it will be red. It’s not blood. The drug is red.”

“So why does my brother need a central line? What is that?” Moira asked. 

“We can give you a leaflet for that, but basically, it’s a long thin tube that is tunnelled under the skin in the chest. In this instance it will be used for administering chemotherapy treatment as well as to take blood samples.” Dr Thomas explained. “Basically, it means no being prodded with needles all the time. We can just use the central line. Are you happy with that, Malcolm?” 

Malcolm lay propped up in the bed with his head on the pillows. Just gazing ahead. 

“I understand. It’s a lot to take in.” Dr Thomas said. 

“I‘m one of the most powerful people in the UK.” Malcolm said. “How did this happen?” 

“Cancer doesn’t discriminate, Malcolm.” Dr Thomas said. “But we’re going to do all we can here to get you into remission and then you’ll be back to spinning stories about the government in no time.” 

“Moira?” Malcolm said. 

“Malcolm?” Moira squeezed her brother’s hand. 

“I’m scared.” Malcolm admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is sick. Not just a little sick, but a lot sick. Very a lot sick. And quite honestly, I think this is the darkest I’ve gone. And the symptoms showing up slowly over time doesn’t help with that.  
Malcolm jumping through hoops to deny his symptoms. Injecting a bit of humour there. Or at least I hope I did.  
Malcolm having to tell Tom about his diagnosis while he’s still in shock himself. And then his sister and having her not believe it.  
Malcolm keeps fainting because he’s anaemic, not because the cancer’s spread to his brain although they were worried about that, which is why they took a lumbar puncture.  
Since Malcolm is based on Alastair Campbell, there’s definitely a story of addiction and an extremely public meltdown. In one of the writing materials-I can’t remember which-he mentioned snorting heroin. It was a joke, but for dramatic license, I’m taking it as not a joke. And since there’s Alastair Campbell, there’s probably some drinking and a history of depression involved too.  
Malcolm has AML and his doctor classified it as FAB. That isn’t a reference to International Rescue and the Thunderbirds, it means that the AML is classified as subtype M2 under the French-American-British (FAB) system, rather than the newer WHO (World Health Organization) system.  
Induction and consolidation are the phases of chemotherapy. Induction is used until remission and consolidation is used to stop the cancer coming back. Some people can go into remission from Leukaemia after just one cycle.  
Cytarabine is a chemo drug for Leukaemia and those are the listed symptoms.  
Daunorubicin is another chemo drug for Leukaemia and has the same symptoms. It is red and it does look like blood when you pee.  
A central line is exactly as described.  
No I have not had Leukaemia. I have not had any cancer. I’m lucky in that nobody in my immediate family has either.


	3. Stay A While

That night, Moira picked up her children from their aunt’s and brought them home. 

“Mammy, where’s Uncle Malcolm?” Keir asked. 

“Yeah, where _is_ Uncle Malcolm?” Ellie asked. 

Moira sighed. “Your Uncle Malcolm is very, _very_ sick and he’s had to go to the hospital. The doctors are going to make him better.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Keir asked. “Is it like when my tummy hurt or does he have a cough like Ellie had?” 

“Your Uncle Malcolm has a disease called Leukaemia.” Moira explained. “Your bodies are made up of lots of little building blocks called cells. In your bodies, your cells are all good. But in Uncle Malcolm’s body, he has good cells and bad cells. Now what Leukaemia is is that your Uncle Malcolm’s bones are making bad cells and they’re making more bad cells than good cells and it’s making his blood sick. It’s worse than having a cough or a tummyache so he has to stay in hospital, but his doctors are going to do everything they can to make him better.”

“Why can’t he be at home and take medicine?” Ellie asked. 

“Because the medicine he has is very strong medicine and makes him sick and tired, so the doctors need to watch over him.”

“I thought the medicine was supposed to make him better!” Keir said. 

“Yes.” Moira said. “The doctors hope that the medicine will make him better, but he needs a lot of it all at once. The medicine doesn’t cause the Leukaemia.” 

“Will I catch Leuk... Looky-meema?” Keir asked. 

“Leukaemia.” Moira said. “And no. Your Uncle Malcolm’s body caused his own illness, you can’t catch it.”

“But what if my bones make bad cells too?” Keir asked. 

“Well, if that happens, then you’ll have to go to the hospital too.” Moira said. “And the doctors will try and make you better. But that is _very_ unlikely to happen.”

“Is this because he got my cough?” Ellie asked. “If he didn’t get my cough, would he be better?”

“No, Ellie. It’s not your fault. It’s not Keir’s fault. It’s not mine or your dad’s fault, and it’s not even your Uncle Malcolm’s fault either. It was just a freak thing that just happened.”

“He’s going to get better though?” Ellie said. 

“Well... the doctors are going to do everything they can to help him get better, but he might not.” 

“And what happens if he doesn’t get better?” Keir asked. 

“If he doesn’t get better then he’ll... he’ll die.” Moira’s voice cracked. She didn’t want to think that her brother could die, much less tell her two young children. Now that it was said out loud, it just felt much more real. And now she didn’t like it. 

* * *

“Alright, ye bawbags, What shit ye got for me tae sort out today?” Jamie announced as he walked into the DoSAC offices on Monday morning. 

“Jamie?” Ollie asked. “Where’s Malcolm?” 

“You won’t be seeing Malcolm for a while.” Jamie said ominously. 

Nicola walked out of her office. “What’s going on here?” 

“You must be the lovely Nicola Murray.” Jamie said. 

“Yes.” Nicola said. She couldn’t help that she was suspicious of this man she didn’t know. 

“Nicola, this is Jamie MacDonald.” Ollie said grudgingly. “He’s from Number 10 communications.” 

“What’s happened to Malcolm?” Nicola asked. 

“He’s gone.” Jamie replied. “Not here anymore, aye?”

“He’s been _fired_?” Nicola asked. “_Again_?” 

“Not fired, but you won’t see him for a while. If you even do see him again.” Jamie said. 

“Not going to lie, Jamie, that sounds like you killed him with a shovel and buried his body in the woods.” Robyn said. 

Jamie walked to Robyn’s desk and leaned over. “How’d ye know I didn’t do that?” He asked. 

“Erm. Uh...” Robyn squirmed. “Well...” 

Jamie peeled away from the desk and addressed the office. “I didn’t do _anything_ to Malcolm. He’s got the flu or something.” He said. “I’m just stepping up until he’s better.” 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Jamie.” Nicola put her hand out. 

Jamie looked at it for a few seconds before shaking it. 

“Tom _really_ thought you were a good idea, did he?” Ollie asked. 

“Are ye questioning me?” Jamie asked. “Because I can question you right back! Ye wee Oxbridge _cunt_!” He screamed in Ollie’s face. 

Nicola jumped back in shock. “Oh Jesus.” She thought _Malcolm_ was bad. Now she could understand Robyn’s fear. This time it _was_ legitimate. 

“Alright!” Jamie shouted. “Whatever catastrofuck you get going on, I’m here to see you through it, right? Right?!” 

“Yes. Yes of course.” Nicola said. 

“Good.” Jamie said. “No more Mr Nice Tucker.” 

After a while of Jamie shouting at everyone as loudly as he could, he finally left for another department and Nicola collapsed into her chair in her office. 

“I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Malcolm.” She said. 

“Who the hell _is_ that guy?” Helen asked. “He’s terrifying. He has no right to be ordering anyone about like that.” 

“He’s quite a lot worse than you think he is.” Ollie said. “His temper can go from zero to one thousand in a fraction of a second. He even scares Malcolm sometimes.” 

“I didn’t know anyone or anything could scare Malcolm.” Nicola said. “He’s a force himself.” 

“Jamie’s clever. He’s very clever.” Ollie said. “He just can’t think on his feet as quickly as Malcolm can.” 

Helen folded her arms and leaned on Nicola’s desk. “You talk about Jamie like you know him.” 

“I _do_ know him.” Ollie said. “I’ve known him about four years now.” 

“Who is he then?” Nicola asked. 

“Short answer, Jamie’s the senior press officer at Downing Street.” Ollie said. “The long answer is that Malcolm can’t be that terrifying on his own. It seems like he can, but that’s only because he surrounds himself with an army of working class Scottish journalists equally or much more angry than himself-ones that he’s _personally_ recruited to be on his team. They’re his attack dogs. His angry Scotch pit bulls. His _wolves_. And Jamie is his chief attack dog. The only person higher up than Jamie is Malcolm. So of course Jamie would be taking over Malcolm’s duties while he has the flu.” 

“Really?” Helen asked sceptically. “Is _any_ of that true?” 

“All of it.” Ollie said. “Just ask Robyn or Terri or literally anyone else.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Nicola said. 

“How do we keep on his good side?” Helen asked. 

“Er, to put it simply, you don’t.” Ollie said. “Not if you’re in politics. If you’re a politician, an advisor, a journalist, a Lord, a civil servant or you went to Oxford or Cambridge then you’re automatically on his bad side.” 

“Who doesn’t he hate then?” Helen asked. 

“I don’t know.” Ollie said. “I’ve never seen that list.” 

“Well. That’s _us_ fucked then.” Nicola said. 

* * *

Early Tuesday afternoon, Stewart walked into Peter’s office and slammed a newspaper down on his desk

Peter looked up at him in bemusement. “What?” 

“Malcolm Tucker’s been hospitalised.” 

“And?” Peter asked. “I fail to see how this is my problem.” 

“It’s not.” Peter said. “But it’s gonna work out to our advantage, yeah?” 

“Do we know what he’s even in there for?” Peter asked, looking down at the newspaper.

“No, but it means he’s not working and him not working means the Labour Party is down their spin doctor and that’d work out in our favour.” Stewart said. 

“I’m not taking advantage of a sick man.” Peter pushed the newspaper away. 

“Oh no, I wasn’t suggesting that.” Stewart sat down on Peter’s desk.

“Get off my desk, Stewart.” Peter said. 

Stewart slid off the desk “I don’t want you to take advantage of Malcolm Tucker.” He said. “I want you to take advantage of his _Party_. See because Malcolm is in a weakened state, so will his Party be.” 

“Do we even know what’s wrong with Tucker?” Peter asked. 

“Eh, probably an aneurysm.” Stewart said with a shrug. “Or maybe a heart attack. Could be another overdose. And if it is another overdose then we can take advantage of that because he brought it on himself, yeah?” 

* * *

Peter stood in front of a hospital room. The number was right. This had to be Malcolm Tucker’s room. Not knowing what state Malcolm would be in, he took a deep breath, knocked the door and walked inside. 

Malcolm was propped up in bed in a sitting position with pillows and had a blanket wrapped over his shoulders. He was wearing an oxygen mask, though there were other tubes and wires under the neck of his pyjama top and in his arm. There was a steady beat to his heart monitor, but he looked like there was little to no colour to him at all.

“What the fuck do _you_ want here?” Malcolm asked. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. 

“I... I wanted to put aside Party politics and see you.” Peter said. 

Malcolm chuckled bitterly. “You’ve seen me now. Take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer.” 

“I-I don’t-why would I do that?” Peter asked. “You’re sick.”

“Yep.” Malcolm said. “I’m _very_ sick. And you’re just fucking lucky that I’m on a shitload of morphine or I would literally rip your fucking head off and use your skull as my bedpan.”

“Ah at least you’re making your threats. You can’t be _that_ sick.” Peter said.

Malcolm smirked. “If only you knew.” 

Peter looked at him in puzzlement. “Knew what?” He asked. “Wait, this isn’t a heart attack at all, is it?” 

“Heart attack?” Malcolm asked. “Who the fuck said I had a heart attack?” 

“Er, Stewart.” Peter said. “He said you’d either had a heart attack, an aneurysm or a drug overdose. So which one is it?”

“None of them. It’s cancer.” Malcolm said. 

Peter chuckled. “No.”

Malcolm said nothing. 

“Oh my god, you’re serious.” Peter said. “You really have got cancer.” 

“And if you fucking tell _anyone_, I really _will_ rip your head off and use your skull as my bedpan.” Malcolm said. 

“Shit.” Peter exclaimed. “Oh my god.” 

Malcolm pulled the oxygen mask down. “You’re a fucking Tory. I know you’d use this shit against me and my Party.”

“No. No I wouldn’t.” Peter said adamantly. “This is awful. No matter what Stewart says, I couldn’t use you dying for my political gain-“

“Whoa, who said anything about _dying_?” Malcolm asked, shifting his position in bed. 

“You’ve got cancer. There’s a risk of you dying.” Peter said. 

“Yeah, but I’m not fucking _terminal_.” Malcolm said. “Fucks sake, I’ve only just started chemo last week.” 

“Last week?” Peter asked. He was trying to do the maths in his head. “It only came out that you were in the hospital today.” 

Malcolm’s mood suddenly changed. “It’s in the papers?”

Peter nodded. “I thought you knew.” 

“Fuck. Fuck.” Malcolm said. “Fuck!” 

“I’m sorry.” Peter said.

“It’s not your fucking fault you sack of shite.” Malcolm said. “Jesus Christ who the fuck leaked this?” 

“Is this really something you should be concerning yourself with-“

“I bet it was fucking one of _your_ lot.” Malcolm snarled.

“Look, I can see this is a rough time.” Peter said. 

“_Rough_?” Malcolm asked incredulously. “I got tubes sticking out of me, I can’t brush my teeth unless I want to bleed for half an hour afterwards, I get regular nosebleeds, everything fucking hurts, I’m so fucking tired, I can’t stand up without fucking fainting because I’m so fucking anaemic, I’m losing my fucking hair and to cap it all off, I got it coming out of both ends. This isn’t ‘rough’, Peter, this is fucking _hell_.”

“Oh god.” Peter said.

“I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy and your lot _are_ my worst enemies.” Malcolm said.

* * *

“Malcolm has _cancer_?” 

Julius Nicholson and Tom were sitting in a room alone in Number 10 while Julius was picking at a sandwich.

“He called me up last Thursday to tell me he had cancer, so I’m going to say ‘yes’, unless he wants sick leave to stay at home and do nothing.” Tom said. “But I don’t think he’s the kind of person to do that.”

“We _are_ talking about the same Malcolm, aren’t we?” Julius asked.

“Malcolm Tucker.” Tom said. “My director of communications and strategy.” 

“The same Malcolm Tucker who-“

“I guarantee it’s the same one you’re thinking of.” Tom said. 

“He _has_ looked unwell for a while now.” Julius said. “Poor Malcolm. He’s had a rough year, hasn’t he.”

“He resigned.” Tom said. “I haven’t accepted it yet. Actually I can’t accept it at all since he didn’t deliver it in writing. I’m just in shock really.” 

“Where is he?” Julius asked. “I’d like to see him because I’m having a hard time believing this myself.” 

“I don’t know.” Tom admitted. “I think he’s either in the hospital or at home.” 

“I can’t believe it.” Julius said. 

“Neither can I, really, it all happened so quickly.” Tom said. 

“Have you seen him yet?” Julius asked before he put the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and ate it. 

“I haven’t seen him since he had this terrible nosebleed in my office.” Tom said. “Really quite bad. Blood everywhere. After he’d gone, I had to call in the cleaners. He’s called me since then, but I haven’t heard anything from him since he said to me on Thursday-over the phone ‘Tom, I have cancer’ and then he hung up on me.” 

“So this,” Julius tapped on the newspaper, the same one Peter Mannion had been handed by his spin doctor, “is The Sun’s way of saying ‘Malcolm Tucker of the Labour Party has cancer and he’s in the hospital’?” 

“He might be at home by now.” Tom said. “I’m not sure. I don’t know anything about cancer, if I’m honest. Besides the statistics you see in Cancer Research UK adverts.” 

Julius nodded. “Right.” He stood up. “I think I’ll be leaving now. Thank you for the afternoon tea, Tom.” 

“Not a problem.” Tom said. “Any time you want to talk about anything, I’ll be here. I mean, when I’m not running the country. But that’s what my cabinet and advisors are for.” 

Julius raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Well, thank you again.” He said and left the room. 

* * *

“Knock knock.” Julius opened the door of Malcolm’s hospital room. 

“Julius. I‘m fucking popular today, aye? First Peter Mannion and now you. What the fuck are you doing here?” Malcolm asked. 

“I came to see how you were doing.” Julius replied. “I saw the papers earlier and Tom said something about you having cancer-“

“So do you _not_ believe that I’m riddled with cancer or something?” Malcolm asked. 

“You’re not ‘riddled with cancer’, don’t talk like that.” Moira said. 

“Don’t listen to her, Julius.” Malcolm said. “The cancer, it’s fucking _everywhere_, mate.” 

“Are you dying?” Julius asked. 

“I _feel_ like I am.” Malcolm said. He could smell the food on Julius and that caused the bile to rise in his stomach. “Oh god. Moira.” He peeled himself off the pillows and pulled himself upright. 

Moira put a bowl in Malcolm’s lap. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine, I-“ Malcolm couldn’t talk anymore as he started retching.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Moira said, rubbing comforting circles on Malcolm’s back as he vomited into the bowl. 

Malcolm coughed and panted as he tried to catch his breath. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Julius asked in concern. 

“No doubt you... you want to fucking... _gloat_ or something?” Malcolm asked. 

“No, no absolutely not.” Julius said. 

“Why are you here?” Malcolm asked. 

“I came to see you-“

“To gloat.” 

“Not everyone wants to gloat at your sickness, Malcolm.” Moira said. 

“He’s a fucking _Lord_, Moira.” Malcolm said, resting his head back against the pillows. 

“I can guarantee you, Malcolm, that I am _not_ here to gloat.” 

Moira took a wet wipe from the packet on the table next to Malcolm’s bed and handed it to him. 

“Thanks.” Malcolm wiped the excess vomit from around his mouth and chin. “Julius, can you stand a bit further away. You stink of food and it’s literally just made me be sick.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Julius took a few steps back. 

“Yep. Better.” Malcolm closed his eyes. 

“Is he okay?” Julius asked. 

“He’s not.” Moira said. “This is his fourth day on chemotherapy and he’s getting all the side effects.” 

“I’m still listening.” Malcolm said. 

“Are you Malcolm’s wife then?” Julius asked. 

“Me? No. Ew.” Moira pulled a face. “I’m his younger sister.” 

“I just thought. Since you’re both wearing wedding rings.” 

“She’s my sister.” Malcolm said. “My wife’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry.” Julius said. 

“She died of cancer.” Malcolm sighed.

“It must be hard what with you fighting it now.” 

“I’m not _fighting_ cancer, Julius.” Malcolm opened his eyes again. 

“You’re dying of it?” 

“No.” Malcolm pulled a face. “No, I’m _not_ dying. Hopefully. But I’m not fighting cancer either. The chemotherapy drugs are fighting the cancer.” 

“Right.” Julius looked at Malcolm’s hands for any evidence of an IV.

Malcolm tapped his left shoulder, where two IV lines went under his pyjama top. 

“Oh. Oh wow.”

“I got a central line installed.” Malcolm said. 

Julius adjusted his glasses. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Malcolm, what cancer you’re suffering from?” 

“I got Leukaemia.” Malcolm said. 

“Leukaemia?” Julius repeated. 

“Acute Myeloid Leukemia.” 

“Isn’t that rare?” 

“You sound like you’re judging me for having a blood cancer so would you rather I had bowel cancer, Julius?” Malcolm asked. “Oh wait, I’m sorry, I can’t just customise the way my body chooses to attack me.” 

“Malcolm Tucker, I’m sorry you’re a cancer victim, but-“

“A cancer _victim_?!” Malcolm sat up once again. “Look, you baldy _fuck_, I may not have much energy, but I can use what energy I have left to rip out these drips and get out of this bed and punch you square in the fucking nose.” 

“Malcolm, please.” Moira said. “Calm down.” 

Malcolm exhaled. “Fine.” He said. “But I am not a ‘cancer sufferer’ or a ‘cancer victim’. I’m one of the most powerful people in Britain. I don’t need anyone’s fucking pity.” 

“He’s just scared.” Moira said. 

“I’m _not_ scared.” Malcolm said. 

“He’s scared.” Moira said. 

“I’m _not_ scared.” Malcolm said adamantly. “And it doesn’t fucking matter anyway.” He leaned his head back on the pillows and took a deep breath. “It’s _just_ cancer.” 

Both Moira and Julius watched Malcolm changing right in front of them. 

Malcolm, for the first time since his diagnosis, reflected on his mortality. AML is a rare and aggressive cancer. And it was starting to dawn on him that he might not survive his fight. And even if he did, his life would never be the same again. It would be one of those times where life was divided into the ‘before’ and the ‘after’. 

He turned his head away and shifted to the side so they wouldn’t see his face. “It doesn’t matter.” He said softly. 

Tom could have burst into the room with Holly Willoughby, Philip Schofield and all the press in Britain and fired Malcolm on the spot and he wouldn’t have cared. Nothing mattered to Malcolm. Not anymore. 

* * *

Thursday. A week since diagnosis. Malcolm looked down at his phone for the time and his heart sank. Dinnertime. He hated the hospital food. It was disgusting and it always managed to make him be sick at the mere sight of it. 

A nurse entered his room carrying a tray of cauliflower cheese with two high calorie protein bars at the side and a jelly for pudding. She set it down on Malcolm’s bedside table.

“Thanks.” Malcolm said. Though he could feel the bile in his stomach rising anyway. He picked up his fork and poked at the cauliflower. 

Just as the nurse was almost through the door, Malcolm started retching and vomited on the floor and in his lap. 

“Oh my god.” The nurse exclaimed. 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm strained to speak, he was still retching and heaving. 

The nurse rushed out of the door, presumably to contact someone else. 

Malcolm reached for the tissues and tried to clean up his face. 

“Malcolm, I see you’ve had a little spill.” 

It was the main nurse that Malcolm regularly saw; Jill. 

“‘M fine.” Malcolm insisted. 

“You’re not fine, you’ve vomited on yourself.” Jill said.

“The food.” Malcolm said. “I can’t eat that shite.” 

“Would you like me to bring something else?” Jill asked, clearly ignoring Malcolm’s swearing. 

“No.” Malcolm said. “I just-I can’t eat it at all.” 

“Why not?” Jill asked as cleaners entered the room to clean up the vomit. 

“I feel sick.” Malcolm said. 

“We can put you on stronger anti-emetics.” Jill said. “I’d have to discuss it with your doctor, but I’m sure she’ll approve since you have to eat-“

“Can’t eat.” Malcolm said. 

“Malcolm?” Moira asked as she walked into the room having just had her dinner. “What happened?” 

“Spewed.” Malcolm said. 

“I can see that.” Moira said. 

“Food. It makes me nauseous. Can’t eat.” Malcolm said. 

Moira helped Malcolm down from the bed, away from the vomit. “It’s okay.” She said. “That’s fine. We’ll just get you something else to eat. There’s bound to be something in the canteen you’ll like.” 

Malcolm said nothing as Moira helped him into a chair. 

Moira then opened the cupboard on Malcolm’s bedside table to look for some new pyjama bottoms.

“Your sister’s right, Malcolm.” Jill said. “There’s got to be something you’ll like in the canteen.”

“Can’t eat.” Malcolm said. “Hurts. Feel sick.”

“I’ll get Dr Thomas.” Jill left the room. 

“Here, Malc.” Moira handed him a clean pair of pyjamas. 

One of the cleaners handed Moira a hazard bag for Malcolm’s soiled pyjamas. 

“Alright, I’m going to get out of here so you can get changed into something cleaner.” Moira left the room, followed by the cleaners, who waited just outside. 

Moira looked at her phone and waited, but lowered it a few minutes later when she saw Jill and Dr Thomas approaching, notes in hand. 

“Malcolm won’t eat?” Dr Thomas said.

“He said food makes him nauseous.” Jill said. 

“He said that something hurts as well.” Moira said. 

“Alright, I’ll take a look.” Dr Thomas opened the door and slipped in, followed by Jill and Moira. 

Malcolm had changed out of his spew-y pyjamas and into the clean ones Moira had given him. He’d also moved from the chair and into the wheelchair in the corner of the room. 

“Malcolm.” Dr Thomas said. “I’m aware you won’t eat.”

“I can’t.” Malcolm said. “Food. Just... it makes me sick. And my mouth hurts.” 

“Hm.” Jill took a small torch from her pocket. “Open wide.” She instructed. 

Malcolm sighed, but still opened his mouth. 

Jill pulled gently on Malcolm’s lip and turned the torch on. “Oh my.” 

“What is _that_?” Moira asked. “What’s going on in his mouth?” She asked, clearly distressed at the sight of the painful angry looking sores in her brother’s mouth.

‘A side effect from the chemotherapy.” Dr Thomas said. “We wouldn’t ordinarily be seeing this so early but because we’ve gone aggressive with the treatment...” 

“What can he do?” Moira asked. 

Jill moved away from Malcolm and clicked the torch off. 

“Well, he can eat softer foods and drink more.” Dr Thomas said. “But I doubt the vomiting is helping in his situation.” 

“I can’t eat. Eating makes me vomit.” Malcolm said, trying to use as little words as possible so his mouth sores didn’t get too aggravated. 

“But Malc, you have to eat something.” Moira said. 

“Can’t.” Malcolm shook his head. “I feel sick. My mouth hurts.”

Moira turned to Dr Thomas. “Isn’t there anything you can do for him?” She begged. 

Dr Thomas sighed. “If you really feel this way, Malcolm, we’ll put in an NG tube.” 

“What’s that?” Moira asked. 

“A nasogastric feeding tube.” Dr Thomas said. “We’ll put a tube down his nostril-either one-down into his stomach and tape it to his cheek to keep it secure-“

“I’ve had that before.” Malcolm said. 

“What?” Moira asked. “When?” 

“When I overdosed.” Malcolm replied. 

“So you’re familiar with it.” Dr Thomas said. “Are you okay with having one?”

“He keeps vomiting when he tries to eat.” Moira said. “He can’t hold anything down.” 

“And he hasn’t eaten hardly anything in a week.” Jill added.

“Then it seems it would be in his best interest to have one.” Dr Thomas said. “But ultimately, the choice is up to Malcolm.” 

Dr Thomas and Moira turned to Malcolm. 

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Do it.” 

* * *

That afternoon, Dan walked into Malcolm’s hospital room. “Hey, Malc. Just wanted to see how you were.”

“Doing great.” Malcolm said. “Can barely stand. But doing great.” 

“Is that a feeding tube?” Dan asked, noting the thin yellow tube coming from Malcolm’s nostril that was taped down to the right side of his face. 

“How observant.” Malcolm said. “Yeah. I keep puking. Can’t eat.” 

Dan sighed. It was easier to deny Malcolm’s illness earlier in the week, back before he had the central line and the feeding tube. Now it was getting harder and harder. Especially since Malcolm was also starting to lose his hair. 

“How are the kids?” Malcolm asked. 

“They’re fine.” Dan said. “They’re wondering when they can see you.” 

“Don’t want them to.” Malcolm said. 

“They’re not your political enemies, Malc.” Dan said. “They’re children. Your niece and nephew.”

Malcolm yawned. “I know. I sleep too much. Constant chemo. It wipes me out. Kids don’t like sleeping. I’d be no good.” 

“It’s almost Keir’s birthday.” Dan said. “He doesn’t want a PlayStation or a bike, Malc, he just wants to see you.” 

“I want to see him too.” Malcolm said. 

“Then let him see you.” 

“No.” Malcolm shook his head. “Cancer is ugly. Kids shouldn’t see this.” 

Dan nodded. “Alright. I can respect that.”

“You can stay.” Malcolm said. “Please.” 

Dan nodded again and took a seat next to Malcolm’s bed.

* * *

Three weeks into treatment, and the chemotherapy didn’t seem to be getting rid of the cancer, but it wasn’t spreading either. 

Moira arrived at the hospital after dropping her kids off at school and went to see Malcolm as usual. Only Malcolm was sitting in a wheelchair looking very tired, wearing a hospital gown and minus his NG tube. 

“Oh Ms McLeod.” Malcolm’s doctor. She called Moira out of the room to talk. “We wanted to inform you that Malcolm has a small fever today. We’re keeping an eye on it. But he has already vomited twice. And he’s brought his NG tube back up, which meant it had to be taken out.”

“Will you be putting a new one in?” Moira asked. 

Dr Thomas nodded. “Of course. Oh and he’s had a little accident.”

“He hasn’t hurt himself, has he?” Moira asked.

“No, not _that_ kind of accident.” Dr Thomas said. 

Moira nodded in understanding. “Right.”

“His bed is being stripped down and cleaned. We think it was caused by the chemotherapy.” Dr Thomas said. 

“He’s just had so many side effects it’s not fair.” Moira said. 

“And the chemotherapy isn’t working as well as we’d hoped.” Dr Thomas said. 

Moira’s shoulder’s fell. “No.”

“I’m going to talk to Malcolm’s haematologist to see if we can’t add a third drug to the mix and see if that’ll go at the Leukaemia more aggressively.” 

“Would Malcolm even agree to that?” Moira asked. “I mean... I suppose he’d have to.” 

“We’ll be around shortly to talk to you both.” Dr Thomas said.

“Thank you.” Moira said. “For everything. 

Dr Thomas nodded before walking away, notes in hand. 

Moira walked back into Malcolm’s room and knelt down next to her brother. “Malcolm. How are you feeling?” 

“Worse than usual.” Malcolm said. “I spewed up my feeding tube.” 

“Yeah, I heard.” Moira said. 

“I need clean pyjamas.” Malcolm said.

“Where are your old ones?” Moira asked. 

“In that plastic bag.” Malcolm pointed to a bag in the corner with a hazardous waste symbol on it. 

“You spewed on them, yes?” Moira asked. 

“A bit more than that.” Malcolm looked down, almost shamefully. 

“Hey, hey.” Moira put her hand on his. “There’s nothing wrong with-you can’t help your chemo side effects. I’ll take them home to wash and bring them back all fresh for you later, if that’s what you want.” 

“I want not to have diarrhoea and to stop vomiting.” Malcolm said. 

“We can ask if you can be put on stronger anti-nausea drugs, if you want.” Moira rubbed Malcolm’s hand gently. 

“I feel like fucking shit, Moira.” Malcolm said. “I’m cold.” 

Moira put her hand to Malcolm’s forehead. “You’re hot.” 

“I feel cold.” Malcolm said. He _was_ shivering. 

“You can go back to bed in a bit.” Moira said. “The blankets will keep you warm.”

Malcolm nodded. “Sure.” 

* * *

As the day progressed, Malcolm’s condition worsened. His temperature rose along with his heart rate and he stopped making sense when he talked. 

Dr Rutter examined him and drew blood. It was after that, Malcolm had a seizure and his lab work was sent back high priority. But before his lab work had even come back, Dr Rutter had already made his diagnosis, and it wasn’t a good one. He left the room, the doctors and nurses, to make a call and came back looking grim.

“It’s sepsis.” Dr Rutter said. “I’m absolutely certain of it. We need to get him transferred to the ICU immediately. Before he goes into septic shock.” 

Moira watched on helplessly as a team of doctors and nurses whisked her brother out of the room. However one nurse stayed behind. 

“What’s happening?” Moira asked. 

“Your brother’s being transferred to intensive care.” The nurse explained. “Dr Rutter believes your brother has sepsis.”

“Do-do you trust him?” Moira asked.

“Dr Rutter is the best haematologist in the hospital.” The nurse said. “Come on. Let’s get your brother’s things packed up.” 

After packing up Malcolm’s things, Moira was taken by the nurse to the ICU, where she had to sterilise her hands before entering. She walked slowly down the corridors and eventually reached Malcolm’s bay. Her stomach flipped when she saw him surrounded by machinery keeping him alive. 

“No. Malc.” Moira dropped the bag full of his stuff and she wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but she was crying on her knees while a nurse had her arm around her hugging her. 

“I can’t do this. Not again.” Moira muttered to herself. 

“Ms McLeod?” 

“My brother’s going through enough.” Moira said. “Why sepsis on top of the cancer?” 

“I’m sorry. This must be a very hard time for you.” The nurse said, helping Moira up from the floor. 

“Is Malcolm...?” Moira said. “Will he die?” 

“We’re doing all we can for him.” The nurse said. “Me and my colleagues have experience treating sepsis and your brother has an excellent intensivist looking after him.” 

“What’s an intensivist?” Moira asked. 

“An intensive care doctor.” The nurse said. “He’s been sedated and he’s on very strong antibiotics.” 

“He’s also on a ventilator.” Moira said, noting the tube coming from Malcolm’s mouth and going down his throat. She looked at the nurse. “He’s... it’s happened before.” 

“I can go and get his doctor to explain his condition if you would like.” The nurse offered.

“Oh god. This is really really real.” Moira reached for Malcolm’s hand, but recoiled at the last second. 

“It’s okay to touch him.” The nurse said. 

“I-I can’t.” Moira struggled to hold back tears. “I’m sorry, Malcolm.” She grabbed the bag and ran out of the ICU and into a stairway, where she called her husband who, at that point, was home with their kids. 

“_Moira_?”

“Dan!” Moira choked out. 

“_What’s going on? What’s happened?_” 

“It’s Malcolm...” 

“_He’s not died, has he_?” 

“He’s got sepsis-they’ve rushed him to intensive care.” 

“_You’re joking. Not on top of the cancer. How much can he take?_” 

“I just want my brother back.” Moira said. She wiped her eyes. 

* * *

After a conversation with her husband, Moira walked back into the ICU, sterilised her hands and went up to her brother’s bed. The noises of the machines were very off putting and alarming, but Malcolm needed her now more than ever. She couldn’t run off like that again. So instead, she watched over him. 

She pulled a chair close by his bed-as close as she could without getting in the way of any of the tubes and wires attached to the machinery that was now keeping Malcolm alive, and held his hand in hers. 

“I’m still here. It’s okay.” She whispered soothingly. 

It had been a long time since she saw Malcolm hooked up to this much machinery. It had been 2001, when he’d taken his cocaine/heroin/alcohol overdose. 

There were quite a few similarities. He was in a medically induced coma. He was on dialysis because of failing kidneys. A ventilator because of failing lungs. 

There were, of course, many more differences to then. Leukaemia wasn’t self inflicted, it was a freak thing, while the overdose was very much self infected. Also he had hair then. And the sepsis... 

Moira leaned back in her chair. She _still_ couldn’t believe she accused her brother of using when all the time he had a deathly illness that could have killed him in days. Why had he not gone to the doctor sooner? Would it have stopped him getting sepsis?

“Oh Malcolm.” Moira said. 

She ran her hand through what was left of Malcolm’s hair (which wasn’t much, he was almost completely bald now) and carefully kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, Malc. You should have seen a doctor earlier. Why didn’t you?”

She knew why. He had a reputation for being a tough guy. He didn’t always have that reputation. He learned that behaviour from his predecessors; Alastair Campbell, Steve Fleming and Peter Mandelson. 

Back when they were kids, Malcolm was soft. Emotional. He was kind and thought a lot about other people. Which is why he got into journalism and later politics; to help people. An incident with a local gang of bullies got him to toughen up and Moira could start to see the scars once again. 

The scars were physical. And one of them, he bore on the side of his head. 

Moira ran her thumb along it and the memories came back. Malcolm had been pushed down a flight of stairs at school. He was lucky to have survived, let alone walk away from it with nothing but a gash at the side of his head and a fractured skull. But after that, he toughened up. Never showed any side of him he didn’t need to. And he started fighting back. 

If he could fight back against bullies, he could surely fight off cancer and sepsis. But his immune system was weakened because of the chemotherapy. What if he didn’t make it through the night? 

Moira stayed in the chair, even falling asleep in it, refusing to leave Malcolm’s side. But she was woken up in the very early hours by a nurse. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He said. 

“What?” Moira blinked a few times to get her surroundings. She was in the ICU with her brother who was dangerously ill with sepsis. And there were doctors and nurses surrounding him. And a long steady beep from his heart monitor. 

“Malcolm!” She exclaimed, knowing exactly what that long steady beep meant. “Malcolm! No!” She screamed. 

The nurse put his arm around her to comfort her as he tried to walk her away from the scene. 

“No! I can’t leave him!”

“I’m sorry.” He said. “You have to let the doctors do their jobs-“

“I know what that tone means! Malcolm’s _dead_! I have to be with him!” Moira started sobbing hysterically.

“Come on.” The nurse led Moira away from Malcolm, which was hard because she kept fighting against him every step of the way. 

Once they were outside the ward, a chaplain was there to meet Moira. 

“Oh my god.” Moira tried to bolt, but was stopped by the nurse. 

“You have to stay here.” The nurse said as he slipped through the doors and back onto the ward. 

“My name is Christine. I’m part of a social care team here at the hospital and I’ve been called up here to give you emotional support. If you want it, that is. What’s your name?” 

“Uh... Mo-Moira.” 

“I’m so sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances, Moira. Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee? Water?” Christine asked.

“No. I-I have to... my brother. My older brother. Malcolm. He’s in there-he’s in there a-and there was a beep, a tone and he’s _dead_. He’s _gone_.” Moira sobbed. “Just go away! Leave me be.”

“If that’s what you want.” Christine nodded. “But I’m here if you need to talk. She turned to walk away. 

“Malcolm... he-he’s the only family I have besides my two kids.” Moira said, still crying. “And now he’s gone.”

Christine turned back to Moira. “It sounds like you’re close.” 

“I don’t know how I’m going to carry on living.” Moira said. “I-I need to be with Malcolm. Even if it’s in the fucking morgue.” She turned away to run.

“You told me you had two children.” Christine said, stopping Moira. 

“Kids.” Moira took a deep breath through her sobbing. “Elspeth. Ellie. My oldest. She’s eight. Keir is my youngest. He’s almost five. On the twentieth” 

“You have two reasons to keep on living.” Christine said. 

“But Malcolm-“

“I understand that grief is an almost impossible fog to get lost in.” Christine said. “I lost two brothers myself. And my sister. It was in a car accident in the 70s.” 

“I lost my oldest brother. Back in the 80s.” Moira said. “He died of AIDS.” 

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Christine said sincerely. 

“I’m sorry about your... brothers and sister.” Moira said. 

The two of them stood in relative silence, save for Moira’s sniffling and stifling of her sobs. After what felt like hours, but was more likely to be five minutes, a doctor came from the ICU and opened the door. 

“Ms McLeod?” He said solemnly. 

“Oh god.” Moira collapsed to her knees, knowing what he was going to say. They tried their best but there was nothing they could do. Malcolm was dead.

Christine knelt down next to Moira and put her arm on her shoulders. 

“Ms McLeod. I’m Dr Harris.” He said. “The nighttime intensive care consultant on duty.” 

“Go on.” Moira said. “Tell me. Tell me my brother’s dead.” 

“I can’t do that.” Dr Harris said. 

Moira looked up at him. 

“Your brother, Malcolm, well... fortunately we managed to get his heart started again. It took twelve minutes, but he’s still alive.” Dr Harris said. “He’s extremely unwell though and has been put under increased observation.”

“Can I see him?” Moira asked. “I need to see him.” 

“My recommendation would be to go home and get some rest.” Dr Harris said. “I’m sure your brother falling into cardiac arrest must have taken it out of you.”

“I just need to see him. Please. Just as proof to me.” Moira stood up from the ground. Her legs were very shaky underneath her and threatened to collapse under her again. 

Dr Harris sighed. “Very well.” 

Moira followed him through the doors and down the corridor, holding onto Christine for support-physically and emotionally. 

Eventually, after what felt like forever, they reached Malcolm’s bay. Christine the chaplain stood outside, while Moira went in to see him. She had to see him. She needed to know that he was still alive. 

Sure enough, his chest was rising and falling as the hissing ventilator pushed air into his lungs. And the heart monitor was beeping rhythmically once again. Malcolm’s heart was beating. He was alive. 

Moira started crying again, this time in relief. She hadn’t lost her brother; Malcolm Alasdair Tucker was still here and this was proof of it. She walked over to Malcolm and stroked his nearly bald head. 

“Malc.” She kissed him on his head. “Don’t do that to me again, you _shite_.” Careful not to disturb any of the tubes and wires, given that they were all important to keeping her brother alive, Moira put her arms around Malcolm. 

Moira started to cry again as she was taken away from her brother-under far less traumatic circumstances than last time. This time it was for _her_ own good. She was tired and she was traumatised. She’d just lost her brother and got him back in the space of half an hour. Malcolm was alive. She had to call her husband. But at two am, she’d risk waking the kids. She’d call him in the morning. And Jamie. Jamie didn’t even know about the sepsis. Hell, he didn’t even know about the cancer. 

“Are you okay?” Christine asked and they started to walk the corridor together.

Moira snapped from her thoughts. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.” She admitted. “However not okay I am, Malcolm has it worse.” 

“If you need anyone to talk to, I and the rest of my team are always here.” Christine offered. “Any time of day.”

“But me and Malcolm, we’re not Christians. We’re atheists.” Moira said. 

Christine chuckled lightly. “And I’m Jewish. You don’t have to believe in anything to need to talk to someone.” 

“So you’re not going to talk about god?” Moira asked. 

“Would you like me to?” Christine asked. 

“No.” 

“Then I won’t.”

* * *

Moira woke up the next morning in a family room. She looked around in panic, remembering the terrifying experience she’d had with Malcolm in the middle of the night and started crying once again. 

She wasn’t alone in the room, however, as Christine the chaplain had stayed with her. 

“Good morning, Moira.” Christine said. 

“It’s not good.” Moira sobbed.

“Your brother is still alive.” Christine said. 

“His heart stopped last night.” 

“But it’s beating now.” 

Moira suddenly stopped crying. The tears kept falling, but she stopped sobbing. Christine was right. Malcolm’s condition was an uncertain one. He was dangerously ill and at risk of death. But for now, his heart was still beating. He was still alive. Moira couldn’t grieve just yet.

“I-I want to see Malcolm.” She said. “Can you... can you come? Please?” 

Christine nodded. “Of course.” 

Together they left the family room and headed through the corridors of the hospital through to the ICU to see Malcolm. 

Stopping at Malcolm’s bay, Moira saw a doctor looking over Malcolm’s vital signs. 

“Is he...?” Moira asked. 

“Well, he gave us all a scare last night, but his vitals appear to be better this morning.” The doctor said. 

“Is that good?” Moira asked. 

“It is.” The doctor turned to Moira. “It doesn’t mean that he’ll survive the sepsis, his condition is still very much touch and go, but for now, it’s good.” 

“I could hug you.” Moira said. 

“I had nothing to do with resuscitating your brother last night.”

“But you’re looking after him now.” Moira said. She picked up Malcolm’s hand and squeezed it. She couldn’t help but notice that Malcolm’s already thin fingers had somehow got thinner along with the rest of his body. His wedding ring was now far too big for him so, not wanting him to lose it, she took it off and put it in her jeans pocket. 

Christine walked over to Moira and put her hand on her shoulder. 

“He wouldn’t want to lose his wedding ring.” Moira said. “His wife died of cancer twelve years ago.” 

“Maybe, if it means that much to your brother, you should take it home.” Christine suggested. “Where it won’t be lost.” 

“I can’t.” Moira said. “I need to be here. For Malcolm.”

“You’re tired. You’re hungry. You have two children.” Christine said. “I understand that it’s important for you to be at your brother’s side. But you would do better for him if you took care of yourself. I’m saying this without judgement. I’ve met with families of coma patients before. And it’s always better for the patient and the family when the family takes care of themselves.”

“But I _need_ to take care of Malcolm.” Moira protested. 

“If you take care of yourself first, you can provide better care for Malcolm.” Christine said. 

Moira sighed. Logically, she knew Christine was right. But Malcolm’s condition was just so dire that she couldn’t face leaving him just in case something happened and she wasn’t there. But at the same time, she hadn’t showered since the day Malcolm fell ill and she hadn’t exactly been there for the rest of her family. 

“I’ll be back, Malc.” She said. “As soon as I can-I promise.” 

* * *

Moira pulled out her front door keys and entered her house. Malcolm’s house. But she lived there with her family, so that made it her house too. 

“Moira?” Dan asked, approaching the front door. 

“Dan.” Moira slammed the door shut after her. “Oh my god. It’s bad. It’s just so fucking _bad_.”

“Is Malcolm okay?” Dan asked. 

Moira shook her head. “No. No he isn’t.” She said. “He died last night. For twelve minutes. He went into cardiac arrest. He’s alive _now_, but he’s in a coma and they’ve got him on all these life support machines. I really don’t think he’s going to make it, Dan.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Dan shook his head. He didn’t know what else he could say. 

“I can’t deal with this alone, Dan. I have to call someone.” Moira said. She inched past him and into the kitchen.

Malcolm’s work phone was still on the kitchen table, right where he’d left it before they left for the hospital and so Moira picked it up. There were a lot of numbers of prominent politicians and advisors for people of all political persuasions. She was actually surprised to see certain names in there. But soon, she found the name she wanted and dialled it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm isn’t dying just yet, so don’t worry. He’s still got life in him.  
Next chapter will be bringing in a certain character into the mix. And when I say ‘character’, I really mean *character*.  
Some characters yet to have made an appearance will get a good bollocking. And the Tories make a plan to take down Labour in Malcolm’s absence.


	4. A Step Away From Falling Apart

“Alright you useless fucking tosspot,” Jamie said, poking Ben Swain in the chest, “You instigated this fucking crisis, now you can fucking end it.” 

“How do I do that?” Ben asked. “All I did was say that children with certain backgrounds were harder to educate than others-“

“Don’t day it again ye fucking useless...” Jamie threw his hands in the air. “It makes you sound like a fucking _racist_. Or a _classist_. Or a fucking anti-EU should be voting fucking BNP out of touch fucking useless politician who is going to get himself thrown off the fucking frontbenches and believe you me, I can make that fucking happen you useless shitstain.” 

“You keep saying ‘useless’.” Ben said. 

“Yeah? Well maybe that’s because it’s fucking _true_, mate.” Jamie said. 

“You can’t get me thrown out of the cabinet,” Ben said, “I mean you’re not the PM or Malcolm Tucker-“

“I’m the acting director of communications and strategy.” Jamie said. “Now I don’t know but I _think_ that means I have the power to tell the PM to dump you down the fucking political shitter, but we can just see about that.”

Jamie’s smile unsettled Ben far more than his-or Malcolm’s-tirades of abuse. “How do I remedy the situation then, Jamie?” 

“You fucking draft a fucking statement of apology saying ‘oh I meant to say this, but I was fucking off my sleeping pills so I was fucking exhausted and cocked up so said this instead, by the fucking way, I’m not a fucking racist or a fucking classist and I’m not about to cross the fucking floor to the fucking BNP or the Tories or-or fucking UKIP’. Do you understand or should I explain it in even _simpler_ fucking terms?” 

“No, I... I understand.” Ben said. 

“Good.” Jamie smiled again. “Then do it and we’ll have no more problem, will we?” His phone started to ring in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw it was Malcolm calling him, so he answered it. 

“Malc, you feeling better from your flu, ye wanker? How’s it going?” The smile vanished from Jamie’s face and his eyes opened wide with fear. “You’re fucking _joking_. Oh fuck. Fuck, I’ll be there as soon as I fucking can. Jesus.” He shoved his phone into his pockets and pointed a threatening finger in Ben’s face. “I _will_ be back for you.” 

Jamie ran as fast as he could out of the offices of the Education Department and once he was sure he was away from prying ministers ears, he took his phone from his pocket and called the Prime Minister. 

“Tom, look, you and I both know I wouldn’t be calling unless it were an emergency yeah?” Jamie said. “Well, it’s fucking Malcolm. His sister called me not five minutes ago-he’s apparently got cancer and fucking _sepsis_ on top of that. They put him in a medically induced coma and it’s not looking good. I know. I need to take the rest of the day off. Or at least the morning. I-fuck. Yes. That would be great. Thank you.” Again, Jamie hung up the phone and put it in his pocket and ran as fast as he could to Number 10. 

* * *

Jamie made it to the hospital later that day dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, a fleece and trainers. Outside, he stopped and lit a cigarette, smoking it as he waited. He’d felt it important enough to also pull Sam out of work but, not wanting to alarm her, he didn’t tell her the full story. So he waited for her. And when she turned up, dressed in less comfortable clothes than Jamie, he stamped out his cigarette, flicked it in the bin and they both entered the hospital together. 

They managed to catch up with Moira in the corridors on the way to the ICU. 

“Moira!” Jamie called out. 

Moira turned around. “Jamie! You made it.” 

Jamie ran over to her and gave her a hug. “Course I did. Malc’s a good friend o’ mine.”

Sam said nothing. At this point, she couldn’t bring herself to. Malcolm was not just her boss, but her friend. She’d known him for a long time, since he first started in the government, thirteen or fourteen years ago. She visited him almost daily during his first coma. But this time it was different. It wasn’t an overdose, but a life threatening disease. 

“How’s he doing?” Jamie asked. 

“Not well.” Moira admitted. “I mean his heart stopped last night. He _died_. However briefly, he still _died_.” 

Jamie clapped his hand to his mouth. He hadn’t heard that Malcolm’s heart had stopped, but then again, he’d only found out about the illnesses but a few short hours ago. “Fuck me.” 

Sam opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it and sighed instead. 

“That’s pretty much how I feel.” Moira said. 

Jamie put his hand on Moira’s shoulder. “Look, if you need to go home or something, Sam and I, we can watch Malcolm for ye.” 

“I’ve been home already, but thanks for the offer.” 

“Ye cannae spend aw yer time here.” Jamie said. 

“I can.” Moira said. “Malcolm’s sick. He needs me.” 

“Or do _you_ need _him_?” Jamie asked. “Look, ye got weans back home.” 

“So do you.” Moira said. 

“Ye need tae split yer time atween Malc an yer weans.” Jamie said. “A ken that Malc’s sick richt nou. But ye shuidnae be wi him oan yer own. Yer gonnae burn yerself oot an that isnae guid for ye or Malc.” 

“You haven’t seen him, Jamie.” Moira said softly. “It’s worse than last time. I really think he’s going to die.” 

“What’s going on? Is Malcolm okay?” Cal Richards walked down the corridor. The Fucker. Of the Tory Party. 

Jamie turned around. “The fuck are _you_ doing here?” He snarled. 

“I’m here to see Malcolm Tucker.” Cal said. 

“Well buzz off ye twat. He dinnae wanna see ye.” Jamie folded his arms. “_I_ dinnae wanna see ye.” 

“That’s not up to you, is it?” Cal said. 

“Shut up, both of you.” Moira said. “You’re Malcolm’s friends.”

Jamie glowered at Cal. “How can _he_ be friends with _you_?” 

Cal rolled his eyes. “Oh here we fucking go! For starters-“

“For starters, _nothing_!” Moira hissed. “We’re in a hospital-this is a _hospital_! My brother is fucking dying! You two are _not_ fucking fighting.”

Jamie and Cal avoided eye contact with each other. 

“How is Malcolm?” Sam asked.

“He’s not well. _Really_ not well.” Moira explained. “About a month ago, he was diagnosed with Leukaemia. I’ve been with him for all of his treatments and he’s had a really hard time with it. And now his body’s decided to attack him again. Yesterday afternoon, he was rushed to the intensive care unit with severe sepsis and last night went into septic shock. His lungs have failed and he’s on a ventilator. His kidneys have failed and he’s having dialysis. But he’s still fighting.”

Cal exhaled sharply. “Jesus.” 

“Moira, you could have told us about the cancer earlier.” Jamie said. 

“Malcolm didn’t want me to.” Moira said.

“But why is now so different?” Cal asked. 

“Because now, Malcolm’s in a coma and I have to make decisions for him and if I want to call his friends out to potentially say goodbye to him, then that’s what I’ll do.” Moira said.

“He’s in a _coma_?” Sam asked. 

“I’m warning now... this is _nothing_ like last time. This is so much worse.” Moira disinfected her hands and walked onto the ICU. 

Sam and Cal followed suit while Jamie stuck his hands in his pocket. 

“Jamie, you have to use the hand sanitiser.” Moira said. “There are other sick people here.” 

“Jamie?” Sam asked, putting her hand on Jamie’s shoulder. 

“I’m jus’ thinking.” Jamie said. “Sorry. I’ll clean my hands now.” Still deep in thought, Jamie pressed the hand sanitiser and a blob came out on his hand. He just stared at it as it melted and slid about in his palm. He put his other hand over it and rubbed what was left of the blob on his hands. 

“Jamie, are you okay?” Sam asked. 

“Aye. Just fine.” Jamie didn’t sound convinced. 

“I’ve never been to critical care before.” Cal said. “Rather hoped I wouldn’t have had to.” 

“I didn’t think Malcolm would find his way back here.” Sam said. “I mean, I know this time it’s not from snorting speedballs and following it up with a Jack Daniels, but...”

“I know.” Moira said with a nod. 

“I’m sorry, visitation for Mr Tucker is restricted.” A nurse said. 

“I’m Malcolm’s sister.” Moira said. “These people-they’re his best friends, the closest thing he has left to family.” 

“I’m sorry, your brother’s situation is just so precarious that we can’t allow any unauthorised persons to-“

“They aren’t ‘unauthorised persons’.” Moira said. “I had their visitation authorised earlier by the consultant and the head nurse. They’re just as authorised to be here as I am.”

The nurse sighed. “I’m going to have to take your names.”

“The woman, that’s Samantha Cassidy. The other Scottish man is James MacDonald. And the shady looking one is Cal Richards.” Moira said. 

“Alright. You are not to go all together, one at a time.“ The nurse said. “You may find your friend’s appearance distressing. And don’t worry about any beeping or any alarms. We’re keeping a close eye on him and everyone else. We may have to ask you to leave for Mr Tucker’s privacy while we carry out procedures or if there’s another medical emergency on the ward. If that’s the case, we have friends and family rooms that you can use. I know it can be overwhelming. But try and remember we’re doing the best we can.” She explained. “Alright. I don’t mean to leave you here abruptly, but I have to tend to patients. If you have any questions, ask one of my colleagues.” 

“I want to see him first.” Jamie said as the nurse hurried off. 

“Are you sure, Jamie?” Sam asked. 

“I have to.” Jamie said. “I just-I feel it. I feel like I need to see him.”

Moira nodded. “Okay, Jamie. I’ll come with you.” 

“No, you’re coming with me to get some food.” Cal said. 

“I had a sandwich this morning-“ Moira protested.

“You need a hot meal.” Cal said. “Let’s go.” 

“Mind if I come with you?” Sam asked. 

“Nah. Come on.” Cal said. He put his hand on Moira’s back and the three of them walked away.

Jamie was left on his own. He swallowed hard and put one foot in front of the other. Walked. He tried to keep his eyes off the other patients. He wasn’t here to gape at them. 

“Excuse me, where can I find Malcolm Tucker?” He asked a nurse. 

“What’s your relationship?” The nurse asked. 

“Er... I’m his friend.” Jamie said. “I was told that it’s okay for me to be here.” 

The nurse gestured to a bed just in the next bay. “Mr Tucker’s just in here. If you haven’t seen him yet, you might be in for a surprise, but try not to be too alarmed.” 

Jamie tentatively walked over and let out a strangled yelp when he realised that the bed did indeed hold his friend. “Malc.” He said. “What’s happened tae ye?” 

He wasn’t prepared. Despite what Moira had said and what the nurses had said, he wasn’t prepared for seeing Malcolm unconscious surrounded by beeping machines and IV bags with tubes and wires and monitors everywhere. He was thin, dangerously so. And though his face was puffy, his eyes looked sunken in. His complexion was white. Not just pale but, apart from all the bruises, nearly completely white. 

Jamie noticed the hair loss last. Malcolm’s hair was gone. All gone. There was nothing on his head, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, no arm hair even. Just no hair at all. “Malc. You’re balder than Julius Nicholson.” He sniffled, trying to make a joke. 

Jamie cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. “Er, Moira’s wi-wi Sam an Cal noo. They teuk her tae get something tae eat. A‘m here insteid. Me. Jamie MacDonald. Ye awready ken that, richt. Oh Malc. A cannae believe ye hae cancer. A-ye shuidnae hae kept it fae me. A ken ye maun haed yer reasons.” 

Malcolm didn’t respond, nor did Jamie expect him to. 

An alarm sounded out from one of the machines, causing Jamie to panic. “What’s happening?! Is Malc dying?” He asked a nurse as she came rushing in. 

The nurse examined Malcolm’s IV bags. “No, it’s just letting us know that one of his antibiotic drips has ran out.” She took one down from the IV pole. “It needs replacing.” She disconnected the IV from the line in Malcolm’s chest and rushed off with it. 

Jamie sat down in the chair on the other side of the bay and took a deep breath to try and calm his breathing. 

* * *

“It seems our friend Malcolm Tucker’s taken a Tory friendly turn for the worse.” Stewart announced as he walked into Peter’s office. He put his fist out in front of Peter. 

Peter, who was in a meeting with Phil and Emma, said; “get the fuck out, Stewart. I’m not fist bumping you over another man’s sickness.” 

“Well, according to our dear and extremely terrifying pal, The Fucker, Malcolm’s slipped into a coma.” Stewart said.

“What?!” Emma exclaimed. “Ollie never told me _this_.” 

“Ollie doesn’t know.” Stewart said. “This is privileged information, yeah.” 

“Stewart, I’m not using this.” Peter said. “Malcolm Tucker is sick _worse_ than you can possibly imagine-“

“What’s ‘worse’ than being in a coma?” Stewart asked. 

Phil chuckled. “He’s got you there.” 

“Fuck off, Phil.” Peter said. “Stewart, I refuse to use this.” 

Stewart groaned. “Look, again, I don’t want you to use Malcolm Tucker’s sickness against Malcolm Tucker. I want you to use Malcolm Tucker’s sickness against Malcolm Tucker’s Party.”

“Who’s their spin doctor now then?” Phil asked. 

“I know that Jamie MacDonald is the acting director of communications.” Emma said. 

“Jamie’s the scary one, right?” Phil asked. 

“Jamie _is_ the scary one.” Emma confirmed. “Yeah, rumour has it that a senior civil servant disappointed him, so he put his fist right through the civil servant’s computer monitor and kicked the computer to death, just to prove a point.” 

“How do you kick a computer to death?” Peter asked. “Computers can’t die. They’re machines.” 

“You’re just being computerphobic.” Stewart said. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Come on, Stewart, that isn’t even a fucking term.” 

“Alright,” Stewart clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Tucker, coma; how do we destroy Labour?” 

“Oh, that would be easy.” Phil said. He grabbed a pen and turned over a piece of paper. 

“Phil, I fucking _needed_ that paper.” Emma complained. 

“Whatever.” Phil said as he scribbled on the paper. “Look, here’s how we go after Labour. Since Malcolm Tucker’s in a coma, yeah, we go after them where it hurts. NHS spending.” 

“NHS spending?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Good lord.” 

“No, no, no. Phil’s onto something here.” Stewart said. “We just have to think laterally, fourth dimensionally-“

“Back to the Future!” Phil announced. 

Stewart snapped his fingers. “Correctezactly!” 

Peter groaned and put his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ.” 

“So what about the NHS, Phil?” Emma asked. 

“Well, we have a massive deficit.” Phil explained. “And we’re putting too much money into the NHS-and JSA and DLA for that matter-so we criticise them for overspending. Jamie MacDonald, well he’s not as on the ball as Malcolm Tucker is. If we barrage them with what they’re overspending on, it’ll embarrass Jamie MacDonald. Since Malcolm Tucker’s gone all Rip Van Winkle and is thus unable to save his Party from these accusations... the Party crumbles from inside.” 

“No, I like that.” Stewart nodded. “Anyone else got any ideas?”

Peter raised his hand. “I have one.” 

“Go on then.” Stewart said. 

“How about we don’t do anything that hurts Malcolm Tucker?” Peter suggested. 

“Oh come on-“

“No, Stewart. He may be the enemy but, possibly unrelated to the coma, he’s very, very sick. I refuse to pick on anyone like Malcolm, easy targets they might be, but I have _some_ fucking respect.”

“You seem to know a lot about Malcolm’s health.” Phil said. 

“I have been to see him in the hospital.” Peter said.

Stewart stiffened. “When?”

“About three weeks ago.” Peter said. 

“Three weeks?!” Emma exclaimed. “Fucking hell, Peter, when the hell were you going to tell us?” 

“I wasn’t.” Peter said. “Malcolm swore me to secrecy.” 

“You know what’s ailing him, don’t you?” Stewart said. 

“I do indeed Stewart.” 

“And?” 

“And I’m not telling you.” 

“Is he faking?” Phil asked. “Is it Munchausens?” He said in a low voice.

“Munchausens? What the fuck is Munchausens?” Peter asked. 

“Oh that’s when someone pretends they’re sick and go to the doctor and convince them they’re sick too.” Emma explained. “It’s not malingering because they often poison themselves or something drastic to get sympathy from other people.” 

“Ooh, that’s good, we can use that.” Stewart said. “Leak it to The Sun; ‘Mental Malcolm Tucker and Munchausen Syndrome’-“

“He doesn’t fucking have Munchausens!” Peter shouted. 

“Can you say that _for certain_?” Stewart asked. 

“Yes!” Peter stood up. “Yes I fucking can, Stewart! Now leave Malcolm Tucker out of this! I’m not bullying him-it wouldn’t look good in the press or my fucking conscience!” 

“This is politics, Peter, you’re not supposed to have a conscience.” Phil said. 

“Exactamundo!” 

Peter rolled his eyes. 

“You must kill that Jiminy Cricket on your shoulder and you think laterally, right-what would look best in the papers or on the interwebs; ‘Malcolm ‘Mitty’s’ Munchausens’, or ‘Spending Deficit Crisis?” 

“The spending crisis, you fucking _nitwit_.” Peter groaned. 

“Yeah, but Jamie can spin it like ‘we can take the budget for the deficit from the army, not the NHS’.” Emma pointed out. “But-but, we _are_ at war with Iraq and Afghanistan.” 

“Wars that their old PM dragged us into.” Stewart said. “Yeah. I like that.” 

“So you’re dropping the Malcolm Tucker thing?” Peter asked. 

“Oh no, no. That’s just on the back burner on a low heat, a simmer. Politics is a lot like making soup, Peter.” Stewart said. 

“Jesus.” Peter groaned. 

“No, we’re going to expose Malcolm Tucker for the fraud that he is.” Phil said.

“You can’t prove that he’s a fraud.” Emma said. “Right now it’s just a weird conspiracy theory between you two.” She pointed rapidly at Phil and Stewart. 

“Well, he’s _obviously_ lying.” Phil said with a shrug. 

“Who lies about a coma?” Emma asked. 

“Benefit fraudsters. Tax dodgers.” Phil’s said. “People with Munchausens.”

“Schroedinger’s Munchausens.” Stewart said. 

“He doesn’t _fucking_ have Munchausens!” Peter said.

“Peter _has_ got a point though.” Emma said. “If Malcolm _did_ have it, he would have already made the announcement that he was sick. Get sympathy from his own Party, other Parties, media and the public.”

“Alright, then he’s malingering.” Phil said. 

“Malc-ingering.” Stewart said. 

Phil pointed at Stewart with a smile. 

“He’s _not_ malingering.” Peter said. 

“Well if he’s faking illness to get off work, then that makes him a malingerer.” Phil said. 

“Exactly, yeah!” Stewart said. 

“And how are you going to prove that he’s skiving?” Emma asked. 

“Easy. We just get Malcolm Tucker in here to record a little statement saying that he’s not ill and was claiming lots of DLA, incapacity benefits, looking for public sympathy and trying to get time off work, then we pressure him into resigning.”

“Oh and how do you propose we do _that_ then, Stewart?” Peter asked, raising his voice. “Get fucking Peter Capaldi in and pay him to pretend to be Malcolm Tucker like he did in that film so nobody suspects the _real_ Malcolm Tucker is in a fucking coma? I’m sure the staff at St Thomas’s would notice something was up.” 

“They wouldn’t because the _real_ Malcolm Tucker’s not there.” Phil said.

“Oh my god.” Emma grunted. 

“Of course he fucking _is_, he’s got cancer!” Peter blurted out.

Everyone looked at him in shock. 

“Oh... _fuck_.” Peter fell backwards into his chair. He _wasn’t_ supposed to say that. 

* * *

Sam went to see Malcolm after Cal. Cal simply stood in front of Malcolm’s bed taking the situation in. He didn’t know what to say or do because nobody he’d ever cared about had had the blessed fortune of not having to be in this position before. He left five minutes later, which is when Sam came in. 

By the time she walked in Malcolm was laying slightly on his side, the nurses having shifted his position to avoid pressure sores. She’d seen him comatose before (as well as, unfortunately, her father after he’d had a heart attack), so none of the equipment scared her. No what did scare her was his appearance. All six foot of him looked tiny, in part because he was just so thin. And the lack of hair didn’t help. 

“Oh, Malcolm.” Sam bit her lip and brought her hand to her face. She tried to regain her composure and walked over to the bed. “Er...” she cleared her throat. “Hi, Malcolm. It’s Sam. Cassidy. Your PA. So, you’ll never guess what Tom did yesterday, right? So you know there’s a recession on. Of course you do, the coma is a recent... development.” 

“Well, Tom, he was spotted yesterday coming out of one of Gordon Ramsay’s fancy restaurants with his wife.” Sam explained. “You know, the one with three Michelin Stars that’s over two hundred quid a head. Probably a few grand more if they had wine. Jamie went ballistic this morning when he saw it plastered on the front page of the Daily Mail. I wish you could have seen it. You would have been proud.” 

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “I’m here, Malcolm. Your sister, Jamie and Cal Richards, they’re all here too. You’re going to beat this. You’re Malcolm _Fucking_ Tucker.”

* * *

It was a particularly boring day at DoSAC as, rather surprisingly, they’d managed to go almost a whole day without scandal, especially since that work day was nearly over and civil servants were beginning to go home. 

Ollie was sitting in an office chair with his feet propped up on the desk, browsing his Twitter when his phone started buzzing on his desk. He put his feet on the floor and looked at his phone quizzically before answering it. 

“Emma? What are you doing calling me?” He asked. 

“_Ollie, I was just wondering if you’d heard anything about Malcolm Tucker._” Emma said on the other end. 

“Oh, first you dump me and now you want dirt on one of my colleagues.” Ollie stood up. “You have got _some_ fucking _nerve_, you know that?!” 

Terri, Robyn and a few other civil servants stopped what they were doing to look at him. 

“_Put that shit aside, Ollie._” Emma snapped. “_This is fucking important._”

“_How_ is it important?” Ollie asked. “What the fuck could be more important than-“

“_I’ve just heard that Malcolm Tucker is in a coma._” Emma said. 

Ollie froze to the spot. “You’re fucking joking.” 

“_It was a very reliable source I heard it from_.” 

“Not fucking... Phil?”

“_Not Phil._” Emma confirmed. 

“Right.” Ollie scratched his head. “I’ll get back to you on that.” He hung up the phone and put it in his pocket. 

“What was that about, then?” Terri asked. 

“Nothing, Terri.” Ollie said. “It was just Emma. Some... Torymergency.” 

“Anything interesting?”

“Nope.” Ollie lied. He opened the door to Nicola’s office and walked inside, careful to close it after him. 

“Ollie, what are you going in here?” Nicola asked. “I thought I asked you to look over and back up the immigration stats-after all, we don’t want a repeat of last time-“

“Emma just called me.” Ollie said, adjusting his glasses.

Nicola nodded. “Right.”

“You know, my ex-girlfriend Emma.” 

“I _do_ know, Ollie.” Nicola said. “Get to the point.” 

“When was the last time you saw Malcolm Tucker...?” Ollie asked. 

“Uh... oh about... just under a month ago now. When he gave me that bollocking because I was photographed in The Express looking angry at Kettle Chips and they made it into a whole anti immigration argument about how Muslims were ruining Remembrance Day because they burn poppies or something, even though they don’t.” Nicola said.

“So Remembrance Day, then, the eleventh of November.” Ollie said.

“Yeah.” Nicola nodded. “Must have been around then.” 

“And it is...?” Ollie prompted. 

“The fifteenth of December-three days after today to the Christmas recess.” Nicola said. 

“And we haven’t seen Malcolm in _any_ of that time.” Ollie said. 

“Yeah, it’s a bit strange, really. Like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.” Nicola said. “Still, he’s got the flu and we’ll probably see him when Parliament sits again after the New Year.” 

“Not if Emma’s right.” Ollie said. 

“What do you mean?” Nicola asked. 

“Well, according to Emma, an unnamed (because she didn’t tell me) source told her that Malcolm has slipped into a coma.” Ollie said. 

“Malcolm?”

“Yes.” 

“Malcolm Tucker?”

“Yes.” 

“Malcolm Tucker-_our_ Malcolm Tucker?”

Ollie sighed. “Yes.” 

“The director of communications for Downing Street Malcolm Tucker?” 

“Yeah.” 

“He’s in a coma?” 

“That’s what I’ve been told.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Nicola exclaimed. “What the fuck is wrong with him?” 

“I just wanted to know if it was true or not.” Ollie said. “So _have_ you heard anything?” 

“Beyond what you’ve told me, no.” Nicola said. “I assumed he was fine.” 

“He still might be.” Ollie said. “It might just be stupid... Phil being a fucking twat as usual.” 

“Yeah, it might be.” Nicola agreed.

“Well, I’m going to... double back up those immigration stats.” Ollie said. 

“Okay. You make sure you do that.” Nicola said. “_Triple_ back up if you have to.”

Ollie left the office, leaving Nicola on her own. What he said didn’t sit right with her and she did wonder whether there was more to Malcolm’s absence than people were letting on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was a bit depressing. Hopefully this lightens it up a bit.  
Ah the BNP. Never thought I’d say this, but I miss them. at least even at the height of their popularity they weren’t as influential as UKIP and the Brexit Party which are literally the exact same thing.  
I know some Scots but I am not fluent in Scots. I am fluent in English and Welsh (I am Welsh). I tried with what I do know, but I should probably get a beta to be honest, like.  
Malcolm Tucker keeps some very weird friends. And those friends are just as aggressive as he is.  
Jamie’s having a bit of a bad reaction. He’s not taking it well at all because he doesn’t know how to process it.  
JSA-Jobseekers Allowance. The dole. Now the extremely and needlessly cruel ESA (Employment Support Allowance)/Universal Credit.  
DLA-Disabled Living Allowance. Now the disgusting and human rights lacking PIP (Personal Independence Payment)/Universal Credit.  
ESA, PIP and Universal Credit are evil. They aren’t a social welfare system because they hurt the most vulnerable in our society.  
Rip Van Winkle, the oft parodied story of a fictional man who fell asleep for 20 years and woke up in a weird and wonderful world where everything was different.  
Munchausen Syndrome and malingering are not the same thing. They’re both faking illnesses, but people with Munchausen Syndrome fake their illness for attention and cuddles and sympathy, while malingerers fake it to shirk responsibilities and/or skive off work/school. We’re all a bit guilty of malingering.  
So Peter Capaldi played Malcolm Tucker in that movie. In the Loop, perhaps? Which takes place in an alternate universe to TTOI? Who knows, maybe there’s even a TV show on the BBC parodying Malcolm Tucker and his colleagues that Peter Capaldi was also on.  
Yeah, Gordon Ramsay really does have a Three Michelin Star restaurant in London that’s roughly £200 a head. It’s called the Restaurant Gordon Ramsay. Being seen there during a recession would suck for any politician, but especially a Labour one in such a prominent position.  
Here’s where rumours begin flying about Malcolm’s health.  
In the UK, poppies are worn for Remembrance Day. Right wing tabloids and commentators and politicians are trying to convince the public that Muslims are waging a war on poppies, even though Muslims fought in WWI and a few of our other wars too. If you’re American and still don’t know what I mean, try thinking of the Republicans and their perceived ‘War on Christmas’. It’s like that, but... worse because there’s usually hate crimes.  
If Malcolm was diagnosed with cancer on Remembrance Day (and he was), then four weeks later would be around the middle of December.  
Yes, the parliamentary Christmas recess in 2010 was on December 21st. It broke up on a Tuesday because why not?  
Usually though, a week in Parliament lasts four days, because MPs have to get back to their constituencies and run surgeries and hustings and all that.  
In the next chapter, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.


	5. The Day Bleeds Into Nightfall

Malcolm was trapped. Stuck somewhere he didn’t know. He looked down at himself and he was wearing a suit and handcuffed to a radiator, making an awful hissing noise every few seconds. It was hard to breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He was panicking. Then he heard an echoey distorted voice that he thought he recognised. 

“_Malc, it’s Jamie_.” 

Malcolm tried to shout out to his friend, but no words came out. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t make a sound. Fuck. This was bad. The last thing he remembered was being in the hospital, having chemotherapy. But he wasn’t there now. He’d been kidnapped and was being tortured. 

“_Tom’s been an idiot again_.” 

Tom? Tom. Did Tom put him in this position? Is Tom kidnapped too? 

Malcolm tried to look around, seeing nobody. Nothing. Not Jamie, not Tom. There was nothing. Nobody. He was all alone. 

“_He’s been like this all day._”

Malcolm tried to pull his hands out of the handcuffs, fight back against them. That was his sister’s voice. Moira. He had to get to her. He tried calling her, but again, no sound came out. What if she was locked up in this hellhole too? Her weans would be so frightened. 

Malcolm closed his eyes, only to be met with a blindingly bright light. Suddenly, he was in another room. Moira was there, close to him. Jamie was looking concerned at the other side of the room. He felt safe. 

But then he opened his eyes again, only to be met with that miserable room again, handcuffed to a radiator. Only this time, instead of the dark, it was lighter. The sun had risen. He hoped people would be looking for him. He’d like to think people cared enough about him to look for him and the people who kidnapped him. 

* * *

It had been five days with no positive change in Malcolm’s condition. His heart had stopped a further two times and Moira had heard talk of doctors wanting to put her brother on an ECMO machine. She desperately didn’t want to have to approve that. 

Malcolm on the other hand, was fighting off the sedation and kept trying to pull IVs, monitoring equipment and the breathing tube out and had to be restrained. He had also managed to somehow punch Jamie. 

“I would hate to be in a coma like that.” Jamie said. He was standing on the other side of the bay with his arms folded. 

Moira was sitting next to Malcolm, stroking his head gently with her thumb. “Yeah, well you’re not.” She said. “You’re perfectly healthy. I mean, until you get the inevitable lung cancer from your chain smoking.” 

“You have no idea how stressful the job is.” Jamie said. “Malc’s frequent complaints that the job’s turned him into a bloody husk should set alarm bells off.” 

“He’s never made those complaints to me.” Moira said. 

“Yeah?” Jamie unfolded his arms. “Maybe he’s trying to protect you.” 

“If he survives this, he’d better choose a new career. And fast.” Moira said. 

Jamie looked at his watch. “Moira. I should be going now. Back tae work.” He said. “Before I do, I think ye should know about some of the rumours been spreading ‘bout Malc.” 

“They don’t know, do they?” Moira asked. 

Jamie shook his head. “Don’t think so. I ha’ent heard anything.” He said. “But there is a rumour that he’s malingering. Making it up tae get time off work. Another is that it’s spread that he’s sick but is actually on his jollies. Er, I’ve heard Munchausen Syndrome, so he’s faking being ill for public sympathy. Faked his own death. Gone tae jail. Been murdered. Murdered somebody. He’s deid and no one’s found the body.” 

“You can stop now, Jamie.” Moira said. 

“Alright.” Jamie nodded. 

A nurse approached Malcolm. “Ms McLeod, I’m going to have to ask you to leave for ten minutes.”

“Alright.” Moira gently patted her brother’s newly completely bald head. “I’ll see you soon.” She said.

“Right. I’ll be off.” Jamie said. “Gotta get back to work anyway. Bye, Malc.” 

* * *

“_Bye, Malc._”

Those words echoed around Malcolm’s mind. Jamie was going. He was going to be tortured. The torturers were here and they were here for Jamie. 

Malcolm tried to scream out, tried to help Jamie, but nothing happened. Nothing came out. He was useless. He couldn’t do anything. 

Into the room came Steve Fleming, JB and the old PM. 

“_Hello, Malcolm._” Steve said, but with a weirdly distorted woman’s voice. “_This won’t hurt a bit_.”

Malcolm tried to speak-what wasn’t going to hurt? What was Steve going to do to him? What was even going on?!

He still couldn’t use his voice. He tried to pull his arms free, jerking his wrists but nothing worked. He was trapped. Worse still, he was trapped and his underwear was soiled-he could feel it. He knew he’d pissed himself. Knew he’d shat himself. Probably the result of being trapped, paralysed and handcuffed for so long. 

How long had he even been like this for? He’d lost all sense of time. He didn’t know anything anymore and it was driving him crazy. He’d always been in the loop-hell, he _was_ the loop at Downing Street. Now he knew nothing and it made him feel weak.

He felt a hand on his chest and looked down; it was JB’s. “_It’s alright. Don’t worry_.” He spoke like a working class black man. 

“_We’re only going to take a little bit of blood._” The PM said, sounding English and not Scottish. 

Malcolm started to panic. Steve, JB and the PM looked like Steve, JB and the PM, but they didn’t sound like them. He also became aware of a sticky sensation on his chest and came to an awful conclusion. 

He’d been kidnapped by shapeshifting aliens that were harvesting his blood to imitate him too! Had they taken over all of the government? Is that why they had Jamie? Is that why he couldn’t talk or move? Had he been hit with some paralytic agent? Was anyone else aware of this?

Malcolm promised himself that if he escaped, he would call Angela Heaney about this. After all, the Mail would print it. The Mail would print _anything_. 

Although Malcolm couldn’t fell it, he realised that one of them must have injected him with something because he suddenly started feeling really sleepy. 

* * *

Jamie went back to Malcolm’s office in Number 10 and sat down. He was stressed, he knew he was stressed out. The sudden temporary promotion to a job he wasn’t ready to take, Sophie entering the ‘terrible twos’, the approaching holiday and Malcolm’s sickness was just far too much for him to handle. 

“How’s Malcolm?” Sam asked. 

“What? Oh. Aye. He’s fine.” Jamie said. “No change. S’pose that’s better than nothing. Seems what’s left o’ Malc’s diseased immune system is fighting off the illness.” 

“That’s good.” Sam said. 

“Aye, but he could still die. It’s a very weird situation.” Jamie said. “Any crises while I was at the hospital?” 

“No crises, but a few ministers have said some things that need sorting.” Sam said. “After all it is Monday and close to Christmas.”

“Good point. The odds of someone sticking their fucking foot in their mouth is pretty fucking low.” Jamie said. “So... who’s said what.”

“The Education Secretary tweeted ‘kids with learning diffs are harder 2 educate’-that’s the number two, not the word-‘than others. Neither should be in mainstream school. They’d mess it up for the normal kids.’ Sam said, looking at her notes. “The Chancellor said ‘the worst thing in the world would to be handicapped’-“

“Jesus, what century is _that_ fucker living in?” 

“And the Home Secretary said ‘I could never date a gypsy’.” 

“Anyone else make an offensive fucking comment or two?” Jamie asked. 

“As far as I’m aware, those are the only ones.” Sam confirmed. 

“Jesus Christ.” Jamie snarled. “Who said what first?” 

“Erm... the Chancellor.” 

“Oh and his office is in this building! What fucking luck!” Jamie stood from the chair and opened the door. 

* * *

Robyn was sitting on a bench in St James’s Park, picking at a pasta pot from M&S. She was alone, not that she minded. She needed to clear her thoughts and forget about work. 

“Robyn. Hello.” 

Robyn looked up from her food. “Glenn. What... what do you want?”

“I heard it through the grapevine that Malcolm Tucker is critically ill.” Glenn said, taking a seat next to her. “Wanted to know if it’s true or not.” 

“I don’t know either way.” Robyn said. “The last time I saw him, he had a massive nosebleed, bruises on his arms and a weird little rash on his chest. And he collapsed in Nicola’s office.” 

“He collapsed?” 

Robyn nodded. “Yeah. According to Nicola, Malcolm was back the next day, but I didn’t see him as I was getting the coffee. Then on Monday, Jamie MacDonald came saying that Malcolm had the flu and he wouldn’t be around for a while.” 

“And you think he has the flu?” Glenn asked. 

“Does the flu cause nosebleeds?” Robyn shrugged. “I mean the nosebleed could just be a nosebleed, but... I’m not unconvinced that they’re not connected somehow.”

“Hm. I’ve heard he’s in a coma.” Glenn said.

“I think that’s just a rumour.” Robyn said. “Ollie’s girlfriend told him that some Tory had told her. Where did you hear it?” 

“I heard it from Drew over at the Guardian.” Glenn said. “You know, the TV critic.”

“How would a TV critic know?” Robyn asked. 

“It’s fucking _everywhere_, Robyn.” Glenn chuckled darkly. “You can’t throw a stone around here without it hitting a civil servant, advisor, politician or member of the press who has heard some rumour or other about Malcolm Tucker’s health-or lack thereof.”

“I’ve heard lots of things about Malcolm’s health.” Robyn said. “I’ve researched his symptoms for myself.”

“And?” Glenn prompted.

“Well, it’s possible Jamie’s right and Malcolm _does_ have the flu. Because his symptoms fit.” Robyn said. “He might also have heart failure. Pneumonia. Or lymphoma.” 

Glenn raised an eyebrow. “Lymphoma? I’ve never heard of anyone falling into a coma because of lymphoma before.”

“I think it’s more likely that he’s got the flu.” Robyn said, unconvincingly. “I don’t think he’s in a coma. He’s probably fine, but it’s too close to the Christmas recess for him to come back.” 

Glenn sighed. “Oh, I’m sure you’re probably right.” 

“And if he _is_ in a coma, then his wife or whatever will send him to a long term care facility and we can all line up to punch him in the face because he can’t fight back.” 

“That was dark, Robyn.” Glenn said. “Besides, Malcolm doesn’t have a wife.” 

“What do you mean? Of course he does.” Robyn said. “Haven’t you noticed the wedding ring on his finger?” 

“He’s a widower, Robyn.” Glenn said. “His wife died in ‘98. Breast cancer.” 

“Oh. Oh goodness, how awful for him. Is that why he’s so angry now?” Robyn asked.

“No, that’s just because he’s a dick.” Glenn said. “Even dicks can have dead wives.” 

* * *

Malcolm was being tortured. Steve had tried waterboarding. When that failed, the PM forced a tube down his throat to suck all the air out of his lungs. JB shoved something up his piss hole. Then JB, the PM and Steve stripped him naked and threw water on him. 

His wrists were still handcuffed to the radiator. And they’d set alarm clocks to go off every so often. With the time unknown to him as the clocks were facing the opposite direction, they were also too far away for Malcolm to turn them off. It was their attempt to drive him crazy. The shapeshifting aliens. All because they wanted to infiltrate and take over the government. 

Malcolm had to get out of there and tell Angela Heaney already. But what if the shapeshifting aliens already had Angela? What if they’d already killed her and eaten her? 

A figure came through the door and dazzled him with their brightness. “Malcolm.” 

It was the voice of someone he knew coming through clear as a bell. Malcolm fought through the dehydration and his arid mouth to finally say something-to finally speak. 

“Elaine?” 

Elaine walked over to Malcolm and knelt down beside him. “Malcolm, it’s not your time.” 

It looked like her. It sounded like her. She wasn’t an alien. It was actually her. Malcolm’s wife.

“Elaine. I love you-“

Elaine put her finger on Malcolm’s lips. “And I love you too, Malcolm. But your sister’s calling out for you. Jamie’s calling out for you. Sam and Cal. Malcolm, they want you back. Go to them.” 

“I’m trying. I’m paralysed and tied up.” Malcolm tiredly pulled at his handcuffs. “It’s not easy.” 

A second figure came through the door with a blinding bright white light. Once it had died down a bit, Malcolm could make out that it was a young woman. Early twenties, probably. She had long brown curly hair, good cheekbones, red lips and the most brilliant blue eyes. 

“Hello, Dad.” 

Malcolm felt his heart skip a beat. “Maisie.” 

The younger woman nodded. 

“But ye... ye waur... ye waur deid.” Malcolm said. He frowned as he tried to think of what was going on. “Am A... deid?” 

“Haud yer whisht, yer na deid.” Maisie said. 

“Then where am I?” Malcolm turned to Elaine. 

“You need to go back to your sister.” Elaine said. 

Another figure entered the room, followed by another. Both accompanied by blinding lights. This time, the figures were old people, one male and one female.

“Mam? Da?” Malcolm asked. 

“Malcolm?” James Tucker asked. 

“Oh baby.” Mhairi Tucker rushed over to Malcolm and stroked his hair. “You... you shouldn’t have this. You’ve had chemotherapy. It’s all gone.” 

“What-what do you mean?” Malcolm asked. 

“You’ve got cancer. But you’re alive.” James said. 

More blinding lights. Malcolm turned his head to shield himself from them.

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

“Ian!” Malcolm said in shock, turning to his older brother. 

“Go back. Back to Moira, our sister.” Ian said. “She needs you.” 

“_Malc?” _That was Jamie’s voice. It sounded noticeably less distorted. “_It’s okay. I’m here._”

“I can’t get to her.” Malcolm said. 

“Ye can.” Maisie opened Malcolm’s handcuffs, freeing him from the radiator. 

“A... A cannae-“

Maisie put her arms around Malcolm and everyone else in the room piled on. 

“We love you, Malcolm.” James said. 

“And we _do_ want you here with us.” Mhairi said. 

“But, well, there’s a big ‘but’.” Ian said. 

“You can’t stay with us.” Elaine said. 

“It’s na yer time.” Maisie said. 

“You’re needed elsewhere.” Mhairi said.

“I love you all.” Malcolm said. “Elaine-I never thought I’d see you again. Maisie, I never thought I’d see you at all. You’re so beautiful and you look just like yer Mam.” He turned to his brother. “Ian, I’m so sorry I didn’t... I support gay rights. But I just wish I’d done more while you were still alive. And Mam and Da.” He nodded. “I miss you so much.” 

“We know.” Mhairi said.

“Go on.” James let go of Malcolm. “Be with Moira.”

Suddenly everything turned white. There was a weird ringing in Malcolm’s ears as his eyes flitted around. White. White. White. A black-ish grey blob. He tried to speak, but there was something stopping him. Clumsily, he brought his hand to his face, but was stopped with a hand on his.

The black-ish grey blob was coming into focus. “Malc. It’s okay. You’re safe. You have a tube down yer throat, but yer safe.” 

Jamie’s voice again. 

“Moira’s been admitted.” Jamie said. “She’s not doing so good-worrying about you. But you’re awake now. It’s all okay.” 

Malcolm closed his eyes and world went dark again. 

* * *

Jamie sighed in relief. There had been no sign of the sepsis in Malcolm’s blood for a few days now, so doctors had decided to bring him round from the coma. Jamie will admit to worrying about him when they said he should be waking up when he wasn’t, but it all ended up okay. Malcolm was okay. Well, he wasn’t, he still had cancer. But he wasn’t in direct danger of dying anymore. 

“Is he okay?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, he...” Jamie inhaled deeply trying to gain composure. “He’s awake. I think he’s sleeping now.” 

“Are _you_ okay?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah. I think I’m going to go home.” Jamie stood up from the chair by Malcolm’s bed. “There’s three days to Christmas and the kids are with their friends.”

“Take care.” Sam said.

Jamie nodded and walked out of the bay while Sam took the seat next to Malcolm. He walked out of the ICU and down the corridors, passing staff and patients and other visitors until he got where he wanted to be. 

“Hello, Moira.” Jamie said. 

Malcolm’s sister was, herself, sitting up in a hospital bed with her husband at her side. She’d had to be admitted after she’d collapsed because of a combination of dehydration, anxiety and lack of sleep in the ICU yesterday and had been put on a saline drip. It seemed today, she was doing much better. 

“Hello, Jamie.” She greeted.

“I thought ye should know, Malcolm’s awake.” Jamie said. “He’s not off any o the machines. And he _is_ sleeping off the drugs. But they brought him ‘round an’ he’s... he’s okay.” 

Moira pulled Jamie in for a hug. “If my husband wasn’t here, I would kiss you.” 

“I felt I had tae tell ye.” Jamie said. 

“Thank you.” Moira let him go. “What are you-are you leaving him alone?” 

“Sam’s there right now.” Jamie said. “But yeah, I’m goin’ home wi my wife. Our kids have been either wi their friends or ours. An it’s so close tae Christmas.” 

“Will you be back to see him?” 

“‘Course.” Jamie said. “I’ll be back tomorrow. And the next day. And Christmas Day.” 

“You don’t have to come Christmas Day.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, you’re Catholic.” 

“So because I’m Catholic, I’m not s’posed tae come an see my sick friend in the hospital?” Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Hae ye even read the Bible?” 

“Er-not really, no. Like Malcolm, I’m an atheist.” Moira admitted. 

Jamie sighed loudly. “Well... there’s a _lot_ in there about helping the sick.” 

Moira nodded. “Alright. Take care.”

“You too.” Jamie nodded and then walked away. Down the corridors and out of the hospital, into the snow. He shook his shoulders and took his phone from his coat pocket to call his wife. 

“Linda? Yeah, look there’s been a development wi Malcolm.” He said. “It’s good. He’s awake now. Nah, Sam’s wi him. Right now... I just wanna come home. Looks like it’s gonnae be a good Christmas after all. I’ll be home soon. Prob’y afore ye. Alright. Love you.” 

He put his phone in his pocket. It was just past two in the afternoon. The shortest day had been yesterday so there was going to be two more minutes or so of daylight. He took a cigarette from the box he kept in his coat pocket. He lit the cigarette and took a drag. 

Linda hated him smoking. He didn’t care. If he was going to die of cancer, he was going to die of cancer. Of course, he was reconsidering that position now that he’d seen what Malcolm was going through. He’d hate to put Linda and the kids through that. Maybe he’d stop in the new year. But for now... for now, he needed the stress relief.

Jamie walked down Westminster Bridge, fag in hand, shivering slightly with the cold. He tried to put Malcolm from his thoughts and focus on the snow crunching under his feet or smoking his fag instead. It didn’t work. The image of Malcolm pale and bald and unconscious, hooked up to machines was just seared onto his retinas and that’s all he saw when he closed his eyes; when he blinked. 

He muttered a small prayer to God, thanking Him that he wasn’t Ben Swain having to take part in a live TV interview.

Jamie crossed the road towards Westminster Tube station but didn’t go in. Instead he flicked his cigarette on the floor and stood on it and went into Caffè Nero. He got in the queue and tried his best not to roll his eyes at Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree playing on the overhead speakers. But at the same time, he didn’t want to put his earbuds in. He had other things to think about. 

By the time Jamie was served, the song had changed to Jingle Bell Rock. Though knowing that his closest friend was coming round from a coma kind of dampened his Christmas spirit. 

“Can I just have a cappuccino please? Ta.”

“Is that a regular size?” The barista asked. 

“Uh... Yeah. Why not.” 

The barista rang up the price and Jamie paid. 

By the time Jamie received his order, the song had changed again to Feliz Navidad. He walked out of the shop and headed home. 

* * *

Two days later, it was Christmas Eve. Malcolm was still in the ICU, but was entirely more lucid now. He had been upset that Moira had told Jamie, Sam and Cal about his condition and refused outright to see them. Until finally he relented and Jamie walked in. 

Jamie was surprised to see Malcolm, propped up in the bed into almost a sitting position. He had a weird and sophisticated looking oxygen mask strapped to his face, rather than held in place with a bit of elastic, and it was attached to the hoses and tubes of the ventilator which hadn’t gone away. 

“Hi, Malc.” 

“Yeah.” 

That was the first word Jamie had heard Malcolm speak in almost six weeks. He’d almost forgotten what his friend sounded like. 

“Are you... Merry Christmas.” 

“Mhm.” Malcolm grunted. 

“It’s good tae see yer okay.” 

“Not okay.” Malcolm said. “Got cancer.” 

“I know you do.” Jamie said. “You nearly died last week too. You were in a coma.” 

“Son.” 

“Er... yeah, the sun is out. Kind of. It’s snowing.” 

“No. Son. Child.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Which one?” Jamie asked. “Euan? Josh? Lewis?”

“Mine.” 

Jamie looked at Malcolm in surprise. “You have a son?” 

“His birthday. Five years. Moira brother Dan wanted see me him.” Malcolm was tired and the words weren’t coming out exactly as he’d like them to. 

Jamie frowned as he pieced what Malcolm was saying together. “Your nephew!” He announced. “Mate, A’m ‘fraid Keir’s birthday’s been already. It’s Christmas Eve.” 

“No it no Christmas.” Malcolm said. “Christmas two weeks.”

“Yeah... Malc, mate, ye’ve been in a coma.” Jamie said. “Ye waur sick. Ye had seizures an yer heart stopped. Yer kidneys stopped an yer lungs failed. Yer immune system’s shot tae fuck wi the cancer. We waur worried ye weren’t gonnae make it.”

“Am A deid?” Malcolm asked. 

“Nah. Sorry tae hafta tell ye, but yer alive, mate.” Jamie patted Malcolm on the arm. 

“An Maisie?”

“A dinnae ken who Maisie is.” Jamie said. 

“Mhm.” Malcolm closed his eyes, succumbing to the exhaustion. 

Jamie sat down in the chair next to Malcolm’s bed and stayed there, just watching the rise and the fall of Malcolm’s chest. 

He didn’t realise how much he took his friend breathing for granted, until he couldn’t. How much he took his friend’s angry death glares for granted, until he couldn’t see his eyes. He didn’t even realise how much he took his friend’s short hair for granted, but now that he didn’t have his silvery locks, he just looked weird and that was wrong. 

A lot of things were wrong with Malcolm’s appearance. He was far too pale. Far too bruised. He had little purple spots in places. No eyebrows. No eyelashes. He was entirely too thin-he was skin and bone. And what was left of his muscle, well that was wasting away.

When the nurse came in to check on Malcolm, Jamie looked down at his watch. 

“Malc, I have tae go. Linda’s making Christmas dinner and then we gotta go tae Mass. I’ll see ye tomorrow though, okay?”

“Kay.” Malcolm mumbled. 

* * *

The next day was Christmas Day and true to his promise, Jamie turned up at the hospital that afternoon wearing a Santa hat and carrying a small bag of (pre-approved) presents. To his (pleasant) surprise he’d learned that after four days conscious, and still on a ventilator, Malcolm had been moved from the ICU to a High Dependency Unit on the other side of the hospital. 

Jamie got directions from some of the staff and and went up there. 

“Ho Ho fucking Ho.” He announced as he walked into Malcolm’s room. 

“Happy Christmas, Jamie.” Moira greeted. 

“It’s Christmas?” Malcolm asked. 

Moira put her hand on Malcolm’s and squeezed it. “Yeah. It is.” 

“It’s not.” Malcolm said. “Wasn’t Christmas yesterday. Christmas in two weeks.” 

“Malcolm. You’ve been in a coma for almost two weeks.” Moira said, sounding almost distressed. 

“No.” Malcolm insisted. “Evil PM. Steve. JB. Tried kill me.” 

“Steve had ye fired, mate. He didnae try tae kill ye.” Jamie said. 

“He-they killed me.” Malcolm said. “A’m deid.” 

“What’s going on?” Jamie asked. “Is he brain damaged or something?” 

Moira hummed. “He might be.” She looked up at Jamie. “And I think he is.” 

“Oh Jesus.” Jamie dropped the bag on the floor.

“He just doesn’t understand.” Moira said. 

“They get ye too.” Malcolm said. “Not Jamie. Jamie deid. Gone.” 

“Malc. A am Jamie.” He said. “A’m na deid. Ye’re na dead. Yer in hospital, mate.” 

Malcolm looked at Jamie and then at Moira. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what was even real anymore. 

“A got ye wee present.” Jamie set a wrapped present down on Malcolm’s lap. 

“He can’t-he lost muscle tone, Jamie. He can’t open the present.” Moira said. “He can’t even hold it.”

“Really?” 

“Comas aren’t like how they are in the movies where they wake up and carry on with life like it’s all fine and fucking dandy.” 

“You know, I always wondered how coma patients go to the toilet.” Jamie mused. 

Moira grabbed the edge of Malcolm’s blankets. “Do you _really_ want to know the answer to that?” 

Jamie shook his head. 

“I thought not.” Moira let go. 

“No this.” Malcolm said shaking his head at the present. “No. No Jamie. Jamie deid.”

Jamie sighed and leaned closer to Malcolm and whispered something in Gaelic in his ear.

Malcolm recognised the words and his mind processed what it meant. It meant, for starters, that Jamie wasn’t dead. That he was standing in front of him. That he’d escaped JB’s, Steve’s and the PM’s torture. But he had to be sure.

He reached out for Jamie, who leaned back towards him. Malcolm wrapped his arms around his friend and hugged him. 

“Yer real.” Malcolm said. 

“Course A am, mate.” Jamie said. “Why’d ye think A wasn’t?”

“Ye na belie’ me.” Malcolm said. 

Jamie nodded and pulled his Santa hat off, shoving it in his coat pocket.

“Do you need me to help you open your present?” Moira asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s just something small.” Jamie said. 

Moira leaned over Malcolm and slowly and carefully tore through the paper while Malcolm and Jamie watched on. 

“It’s a scarf.” Moira announced, holding it up for Malcolm to see. 

“A know ye like yer scarves, Malc.” Jamie said. 

“Paul Smith?” 

“Nah, sorry.” 

“There’s also a beanie hat.” Moira put a dark blue hat on Malcolm’s chest. 

“Yeah, it’s soft inside. Figured... since yer bald now.” Jamie shrugged. 

Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t... you present.” 

“I know.” Jamie said. “I didn’t expect anything off ye, mate. You’ve been unconscious for days.” 

“Days.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, Malcolm.” Moira put her hand on Malcolm’s bald head. “It’s not your fault. You were very, _very_ sick. We were all more concerned with your survival than we were about Christmas.”

Malcolm pointed at Jamie. “Catholic.”

“Aye.” Jamie nodded. “But it wouldn’t feel right celebrating Christmas without my best mate.” He handed another present to Moira. “It’s only something small.”

“Jamie, you shouldn’t have.” Moira opened the wrapping paper to reveal a Radox gift pack. “Are you trying to tell me something?” 

“That ye need tae take some time for yourself. Dinnae worry about Malc. Go home an have a relaxing bath.” 

“Thank you, Jamie.” Moira hugged Jamie. “And I know Malcolm appreciates his gift too. And I already got what I wanted for Christmas.” She looked over to her brother. “I don’t care if he does have any brain damage, Jamie. He’s alive. That’s what matters most. I don’t have to bury my brother at Christmas.” 

“Aye. Malc’s alive.” Jamie nodded. He remembered a time where it really didn’t look like Malcolm would make it. But he did. Sure he talked funny and acted funny. But throughout his sickness Malcolm had technically died three times and his heart had stopped for a grand total of twenty-six minutes. It was inevitable that Malcolm would have some problems considering how long his brain had been starved of oxygen for. 

Jamie left the rest of the presents in the bag on Moira’s chair. “Just something for yer Ellie an Keir.” 

“Thanks.” 

“An there’s something for Sam too.” Jamie said. “If she comes round. Linda sends her love.” 

“Thanks, Jamie.” Moira said. “For everything.” 

Jamie grabbed every scrap of the wrapping from Malcolm’s bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Malc.” 

Malcolm didn’t answer. His eyes were closed and he was presumably sleeping. His brutal chemotherapy regime hadn’t stopped because he was sick. 

Jamie walked to the door, but remembered something and turned around. “Oh, Moira, Linda an the kids are going down tae Scotland tomorrow.” 

“Why?” Moira asked.

“See my parents. Rest o the family. Hogmanay.”

“Shit. When will you be back?” 

“I won’t.” Jamie said. “I’m staying here.” 

“Jamie, it’s Hogmanay-“ Moira tried for argue.

“And today’s Christmas Day.” Jamie pointed out. “I’m not leaving Malc. Not while he’s sick like this.” 

“You don’t have to stay, Jamie. I’m here. Sam’s here. Cal’s here.” Moira said.

“Linda and I discussed it already.” Jamie said. “We don’t wanna disrupt the bairns an their traditions. After all, it’s nae their da in hospital. Jus da’s mate.” 

“If you’re sure.” Moira said. 

Jamie nodded. “I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Malcolm’s coma dream to be something that would scare him. And to do that I read a lot of stuff from people who were in medically induced comas and now I really hope I don’t ever need to be in one for whatever reason.  
And yeah, the Mail really does print anything. They’ve printed some blatant lies. And will Angela Heaney put in an appearance? Maybe.  
Believe me, saying any one of those ministers’ offensive comments aren’t nearly as bad as half the shit that comes from their mouths now. Those are pretty fucking tame compared to ‘people with a funny tinge’, ‘humbug’ (when a female MP tried to raise a point about having death threats and her assassinated pal) and literal open talk about breaking the law.  
Glenn and Robyn. This little scene doesn’t move the story along, but it shows how Malcolm’s health has become a talking point so I felt it was fine to stay.  
Malcolm’s dead family members all visit him. It’s all happening in his mind. So if you want this scene to be extra sad, Malcolm’s daughter Maisie was stillborn and so obviously didn’t get a chance to grow up, so how does Malcolm know what she looks like as a twenty-one year old? The answer is, he obviously doesn’t. It’s all in his imagination. It’s what he imagines her to be like as she would be in 2010. He never even got to know her eye colour. He just imagines that they’re blue, like his.  
Moira wasn’t taking care of herself and burned herself out so badly. This is what happens when you don’t listen to hospital chaplains.  
The oxygen mask Malcolm wears, that’s non-invasive ventilation. He still needs his lungs supported, but he no longer needs a tube in his throat to force air into his lungs.  
And on Christmas Day, he no longer needs the specialised equipment of the ICU, so he moved a step down to the HDU. He’s getting better and will only improve from here. Until he doesn’t.  
Yeah, it’s a thing to lose muscle in a coma. People who wake up from even a few days long coma often can’t grab things like cups or their phones. It’s not that unreasonable for Malcolm not to be able to pick up the present or be unable to unwrap it.  
Do you know how coma patients go to the toilet? Do you want to know?  
Being from the lowlands, Jamie and Malcolm would not be speaking Gaelic. Maybe they went to the highlands and leaned a phrase or two. Maybe they know other people who speak it? I’ll let you decide how they know it.  
Is Malcolm brain damaged? No no, he isn’t. You’ve read the intro chapter. His brain’s still a little scrambled and he’s having trouble telling what’s real and what isn’t after his vivid coma dream (nightmare).  
Stay tuned for more rumours, a time skip and Nicola Murray. Also, Malcolm gets some news.  
I’ve now written the death scene. It’s not sad. It’s the aftermath that’s sad.


	6. Good Enough

The New Year passed by uneventfully. When Parliament was recalled after the Christmas recess, Nicola was surprised to see Jamie MacDonald storm angrily into her department and screaming at someone on his mobile phone. She watched him bollock that person on the phone from her office.

“Where the _fuck_ is Malcolm?” Nicola hissed

“I don’t know.” Helen said. “It was just the general assumption that he’d be back.”

“Maybe Emma was right.” Ollie said. “Maybe he really _is_ in a coma.”

“Why would he be in a coma?” Helen asked. 

“Lots of reasons.” Ollie said. 

“Yeah, but wouldn’t we have heard about it?” Helen said. “It would be big news if the Labour Party spin doctor were in a coma.”

“Well, apparently he’s been in a coma before and we never heard about it.” Ollie said. 

“Who told you that?” Helen asked. 

“Terri told me.” Ollie said. 

“I heard it from Glenn.” Nicola said. “Also, Glenn said that Malcolm used to snort speedballs?” 

“Cocaine _and_ heroin?” Ollie asked. “That’s impressive, if not illegal.” 

“It _is_ illegal.” Helen said. 

“Yeah, but everyone in government snorts coke.” Ollie reasoned. 

“Do you do it?” Helen asked. 

“No, I just smoke.” Ollie said. “You know who does though? Geoff Holhurst.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Helen said. 

“Sh! Quiet! Jamie’s coming this way.” Nicola hissed. “Look busy!” 

Jamie burst into the room. “Alright. Let’s get the fuckin pleasantries out the fuckin way first yeah. So Happy New Year.“

“Happy New Year to you too, Jamie.” Ollie said.

“I’ll bite. Where’s Malcolm?” Nicola said. 

“Not here.” Jamie said. “_I_ am though.” 

“But that’s not answering the question.” Helen said. 

“Fuck answering the fucking questions!” Jamie screamed. “Malcolm’s not fucking here! Do you see him? No you fucking don’t! _I’m_ fucking here! Fucking forget about Malcolm!”

“Yep.” Helen nodded, backing away slightly.

“Got it.” Nicola said. 

“So he’s not in a coma then?” Ollie asked. 

Jamie opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. His eyebrows knitted together as he thought of what he was going to say. His mouth opened again, but again, he thought better of what he was going to say. 

“So he _is_ then?” Nicola asked after about a minute of Jamie’s silence. 

“No, I was just wondering where you heard a stupid thing like that from.” Jamie said. 

“So it’s not-“ Ollie began. 

“No it’s not fucking true!” Jamie shouted. “Malcolm’s fully fucking conscious an I can get ye on the phone to him right fucking now if ye want me to!” He ripped his phone from his pocket and exaggeratedly searched through his contacts. “See?!” He pointed aggressively at one particular contact; _Fuckin Bawbag_.

“What’s a Bahw-bag?” Helen asked. 

Jamie rolled his eyes. “_Baw_bag. Honestly it’s like ye don’t know Scots.” 

“What’s Scots?” Ollie asked. 

Jamie threw his phone against the wall. “I’m fuckin done here.” He announced. “How the _fuck_!” He roared angrily. Some of it wasn’t anger. He wasn’t prepared for the job he was thrust into, seeing his closest friend in a coma, not knowing if he was going to come out of it brain damaged or not. Watching his once powerful friend fighting cancer, now wasting away and unable to eat or even hold his phone. His home life was going to shit as well with Euan entering puberty and Sophie in her terrible twos, the atmosphere was completely fraught. And on top of that, he’d quit smoking and was in desperate need of a fag. Or ten.

Ollie, Helen and Nicola jumped back in fear. 

Jamie turned around to face the trio. “Don’t cock up. Don’t say anything to anyone. Don’t even fucking breathe without my fucking permission and the fucking permission of Communications. Ye got that?” 

“Yes, Jamie.” Nicola said. “Perfectly clear.” 

Jamie’s smashed phone began to ring-clearly, he hadn’t smashed it hard enough. He picked it off the floor and answered it. “Yes, hello.” He said in exasperation. “You’re fucking joking. Fucking Dan Miller the fucking shite. Yeah. I’m just in fucking DoSAC. I’m on my way.” 

Jamie opened the door and left Nicola’s office. 

“Well that wasn’t terrifying at all.” Helen said. 

“I hear.... I hear he’s given up smoking.” Ollie said. 

“That would explain some things.” Nicola peeked out of the glass. “Like him shouting at Robyn right now.” 

Ollie looked too. “Jesus.” He said. “You know, I think Malcolm _is_ in a coma.” 

“Yeah, his reaction to that question was a little weird.” Helen agreed. 

“Even if he wasn’t, there’s something weird going on.” Ollie said. 

“Yeah.” Nicola nodded. “I agree.” 

* * *

Later that week, people had stopped questioning Malcolm’s absence, at least to Jamie. And at least around DoSAC.

“Have you seen this?” Ollie asked, slamming down a Daily Mail newspaper on Nicola’s desk.

“Seen what?” Nicola asked. “I’ve been looking through the papers-“ She looked down at the newspaper. On the front page was a split picture, half showed Peter Mannion and the other half showed Julius Nicholson. Both were leaving St Thomas’s Hospital. 

“This, of course.” Ollie turned the page. 

Nicola tapped the photo on this page which depicted someone else leaving St Thomas’s Hospital. “That’s Jamie.” 

“Also spotted; Cal Richards and Stewart Pearson.” Ollie said. 

“Maybe they all have appointments-“

“It’s a regular thing. They’re spotted going in and out regularly.” 

“I... don’t know.” Nicola shook her head. 

“You don’t think they could be visiting Malcolm, do you?” 

“Who’s visiting Malcolm?” Jamie asked from the doorway. 

Ollie jumped a foot in the air. “Jesus.” 

“Jamie, you’ve been spotted and photographed by some Daily Mail hack going in and out of St Thomas’s Hospital.” Nicola handed Jamie the paper. 

Jamie’s eyes widened slightly before he forcefully shoved the paper in the bin. “Photoshop.” He said. “Bad photoshop.” 

“So where’s Malcolm then?” Ollie asked. 

“Barbados.” Jamie said with a completely straight face. 

“Really?” Ollie asked. 

“Yeah,” Jamie took his phone from his pocket, “d’ya want the phone number tae his hotel?” 

“No, that’s fine, Jamie thank you.” Nicola said. 

“Aye.” Jamie put his phone back. 

After his daily threatening of Nicola and her advisors to keep them in line, Jamie left for another department. 

Nicola turned to Ollie. “Malcolm isn’t in Barbados.” 

“Obviously.” Ollie said. 

“He’s sick or something, isn’t he?” Nicola said. 

“Obviously.” Ollie and Helen said in unison. 

* * *

Malcolm was sitting up in a bed back on the haematology ward. He’d mostly recovered from the sepsis, at least physically. His kidneys still weren’t working at full capacity and probably never would again, but his doctors were satisfied that he didn’t need dialysis or a transplant-at least not just yet. And he was still receiving supplemental oxygen through a cannula, but on the bright side, he was able to eat again. Even if it was just something simple like a soup or a jelly. 

Thanks to the strict visiting hours of the High Dependency Unit, Moira had stopped visiting her sick brother all hours of the day and actually stopped neglecting herself and her children. 

Malcolm was actually being visited by one Lord Nicholson, who had brought with him a pack of probably expensive biscuits. Malcolm was just watching Julius eat them. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Malcolm.” Julius offered Malcolm the tray. “Would you like one?” 

“You know I can’t eat that, right?” Malcolm said. “I’ve only just graduated to fuckin soup broth.” 

“There’s so much I don’t know about having cancer.” Julius said. He picked up another biscuit and bit into it.

“Well, I don’t have a ‘regular’ cancer. I have a blood cancer. And it’s rare and extremely aggressive.” Malcolm said. “It’s a learning curve for me too.” 

“I just can’t imagine being on a feeding tube.”

“That’s because you’re always eating.” Malcolm observed. “How the hell are you not obese?”

“Because I exercise, Malcolm.” Julius said. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, I have recordings of you and Jamie screaming at people in the government and I play them when I run on a treadmill as a motivator.” Julius said with a coy smile. 

Malcolm chuckled weakly. “Funny. Funny man.” 

“Never mind me, how are you doing?” Julius finished his biscuit and picked up another one from the tray.

“Terribly.” Malcolm replied. “I’m on a cocktail of now three different chemo drugs that they stick right into my chest-because the first two weren’t working. I still have to have blood transfusions, but they poke needles into my arms for that. I can’t move out of this bed because they’ve rammed a plastic tube up my cock and I’d faint if I stood up anyway because of the anaemia. And I’ve only just relearned how to grab a fucking spoon so I can eat my own soup rather than having a nurse or a Moira or Sam or Jamie feed me like I’m fucking one year old baby or a fuckin quadriplegic.”

“I believe they call it tetraplegia now, Malcolm.” Julius said. 

“Oh yeah and I still have diarrhoea.” Malcolm finished.

Julius was about to bite into his biscuit once again, but lowered it on Malcolm’s mention of diarrhoea. “Yes, that does sound like a problem.” He said. “Well, a couple of problems.”

“I’m dying, you baldy ballbag, show me some fucking sympathy.” Malcolm complained. “Or do I have to come and haunt you at my own fucking funeral?”

“I can assure you, Malcolm, that I have only the deepest sympathies for your current situation.” Julius said. 

“I’m dying.” 

“You are not dying.” 

“I’m dying, Julius. I’ll be dead before Christmas.”

“It’s January now, Malcolm.” 

“I’m dying.” 

“Malcolm Tucker, you are not dying.” 

“How do you know that?” Malcolm asked. “How do you know that my oncologist and my haematologist didn’t come to me earlier in the day to tell me that my cancer’s terminal?”

“I don’t, but-“

“I mean, they didn’t but I know that I’m probably not going to make it.” 

“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Julius said. 

“Oh have you seen the survival rates for AML?” Malcolm asked. “They’re terrible. Especially in older people.” 

“You’re fifty-one. That’s not exactly old you know.” Julius said. 

“If I were forty years younger, I’d probably have a chance against this.” Malcolm said. 

“Are you scared, Malcolm?” Julius asked. 

Malcolm scoffed and frowned. He shook his head aggressively. “No. No I’m not fucking scared.” 

“Your demeanour suggests otherwise.” Julius said. “It’s okay to be scared, Malc. You’re fighting a life threatening disease. It would be far stranger to me if you weren’t scared.” He popped another biscuit into his mouth as Malcolm stared on.

* * *

As the weeks passed, the questions mounted. The main question on everyone’s lips being ‘where is Malcolm Tucker’? His absence was noted by everyone from the BBC to armchair detectives on Twitter who’d started the hashtag #WheresTucker. It was coming up on Marr, Newsnight and The One Show and beyond. Jon Snow had even started a brief segment called TuckerWatch on Channel 4 News. 

Nobody had so far guessed the truth. But a few select people did know the truth. Malcolm. His sister. His brother-in-law. His niece and nephew. His best friends. His PA. His opposite number. The shadow DoSAC Secretary. His aide. His political advisor. And the hospital staff treating him.

Jamie was becoming increasingly restless and twitchy and definitely more unhinged. His threats were becoming more frequent and more violent and he often broke items to prove a point and scare ministers into behaving. 

He burst into Tom’s office breathing heavily with bloodshot eyes. “I need ye tae reshuffle.” He demanded. “Or-or fucking call a fucking snap election.” 

“I can’t call a snap election, Jamie, I already called one last year.” Tom said. 

“I can’t fuckin-I can’t.” Jamie sat down in a chair and broke down crying. 

Tom stiffened. It was unnerving to see Jamie, a man who was happiest when he was shouting and insulting and threatening people, crying. It was incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Ye haven’t even been tae see Malcolm in hospital!” Jamie shouted. 

“I’m busy running the country, Jamie. I can’t just go to-“

“Give me yer happy pills.” Jamie said. 

“... what?”

“Give me yer happy pills-I need yer happy pills.” 

“Jamie, are you depressed?” 

“... I need yer happy pills.” 

“Get out of my office, Jamie.” 

Jamie screamed in frustration and slammed his palm into the wall. He let himself fall forward onto the wall and carried on crying. 

A security agent and another advisor came running in. 

“He’s right there.” Tom pointed to Jamie, who was sobbing in the corner. 

“Jesus.” The advisor shuffled backwards. He felt uncomfortable watching the usually aggressive Jamie sobbing uncontrollably on the floor. 

The security agent knelt down. “Mr MacDonald. Are you okay?” 

Jamie tried his best to steady his breathing. “Fine. I’m fine.” 

“Only I don’t think you are. You’re sobbing on the floor of the Prime Minister’s office.” She said.

“Look. I‘m fine.” Jamie said, his breath hitching. 

“Go and get someone to bring him some tea or something.” Tom said to his advisor who was just standing there.

“I need some air.” Jamie said. He stood up from the floor and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t let anyone know that he’d been crying. Jamie MacDonald was hard. Tough. He didn’t cry. 

Jamie walked out of the room with his head low. He kept walking the corridors of Number 10 until he came to the stairs and descended them. After a bit of a back and forth with the doorman, Jamie walked out. He walked away from Downing Street, passing the security guards waiting there. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and kept walking until he reached the nearest Tesco. 

He walked inside and came out having paid for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

The relief he felt at lighting up a cigarette and smoking it was worth more than the anxiety of trying to quit. Logically, he knew he had to or that would be him lying in intensive care with a tube in his throat. But he couldn’t quit. Not just yet. Not while everything was causing him so much stress and Malcolm, his friend... 

Jamie smoked his cigarette while he walked back to Downing Street, where he meant to go. But he instead took a detour and went to St James’s Park, where he lit another cigarette. 

It was cold, but not bitingly so. Twelve degrees Celsius. Jamie was perfectly fine to sit in just his suit on the bench, but would have been more comfortable with his coat on. 

People walked past as they always did. Sirens blared as they always did. Couples kissed and held hands as they always did. People stopped to feed the ducks. People always fed the ducks. And the geese. And the pigeons. The temperature probably helped. Sightseers. Parents. Children. 

Jamie took a drag of his cigarette. Being in St James’s Park was grounding. Comforting. That after his freak out in the Prime Minister’s office, to know that the world was still turning. That despite Malcolm fighting off cancer in a hospital room, life was still going on. 

Jamie had his own children to think about. His wife. He _had_ to stop smoking. He promised he would for them. Euan was a teenager now and soon Josh would be as well. They’d be coming up to the age where they would be offered fags from their classmates. He wasn’t sure whether being in the local comprehensive would make it worse than if they were at private school (not that he’d _ever_ allow his kids to go there, adopted or not, it was just too much against his principles). How could he ever expect them to say ‘no’ if they saw their own father smoking. 

And then there was the high risk of lung cancer. He saw how badly Malcolm was suffering and although Malcolm smoked, he wasn’t a regular smoker. Then again, Malcolm had blood cancer. And all the times he’d ever wanted to cry on seeing him practically confined to that hospital bed or a wheelchair had come out today in Tom’s office. He couldn’t let that happen again. 

He didn’t want that to be him either. Wasting away from cancer, dying in front of his children. Kirsty was five and Sophie was only two. They wouldn’t understand. And Lewis. Lewis was a sensitive little boy. He would take it badly. Linda would be left to raise five children on her own. It wouldn’t matter so much if he was hit by a car walking to work, but if he died of lung cancer all because he was too weak to give up smoking, well that would be selfish.

Jamie stubbed out his cigarette and put it in the bin. He sat down at a different bench, watching the ducks in the pond. He needed time and space just to think. 

After a third cigarette, Jamie walked back to Downing Street and into Malcolm’s office. 

“Jamie, you’ve been gone a while and I heard you’d been crying.” Sam said. “Do you want a tea or a coffee or anything?” 

“I’m fine.” Jamie said. 

“So why were you crying?” Sam asked. 

“Just... trying to give up smoking, yeah?” Jamie said. 

“You reek of cigarettes.” 

“It’s not even four weeks into 2011 and I’ve broken my New Year’s resolution.” Jamie said, emptying his pockets of the cigarettes and lighter. 

You’re stressed. I won’t hold it against you.” Sam said. 

“No, but Linda might.” Jamie said. 

* * *

“Nicola, you’re late.” Ollie said as Nicola entered the DoSAC offices in the afternoon after dinner. “Very late. And for me to be the one to tell you this-“

“Cut the shit, Ollie.” Nicola snapped. “I’ve just heard that one of my friends has been diagnosed with fucking stage four lymphoma.” 

“Whoa.” Ollie said.

“Wow, I’m so sorry.” Helen said. 

“So I’ve been fucking crying in the toilets.” Nicola said. “I’m going to Guy’s and St Thomas’s later to see her.” 

“I’m so sorry, Nicola.” Robyn said. 

“Yeah, that is-that’s rough.” Terri added. “But at least it’s not you, right? With the cancer?” 

“I’ve known her pretty much all my life, so yeah, it _is_ rough.” Nicola said. “Let’s just get through this afternoon without Jamie shouting at us for some reason or other.” 

* * *

That evening, still within visiting hours, Nicola walked to St Thomas’s Hospital. Coming from the hospital was The Fucker. Nicola knew he’d been seen regularly coming in and going out, but it was weird to see it for herself. 

She asked at reception about her friend and was sent up to the haematology ward. 

While Nicola was looking for her friend, a woman approached her. 

“You-are you Nicola Murray?” She asked. 

“Oh. Um. Yes.” 

“Oh it’s so nice to finally meet you.” 

“Erm, are you a constituent?” Nicola asked. 

“Oh shit, fuck I didn’t... I’m sorry, I’m Moira McLeod.” She put her hand out. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.” 

“Oh no, no. My brother talks about you all the time.” Moira said. 

“Who’s your brother?” 

“Malcolm-“

“Tucker?” Nicola asked. 

“Yeah.” Moira nodded

Nicola shook Moira’s hand. “Yeah, I know him. A little bit too intimately.” 

“You’re seeing Malcolm?” Moira asked. “I had no idea he was seeing anyone after Kate dumped him.” 

“Kate?” Nicola asked. 

“Oh you didn’t... never mind.” Moira waved her hand dismissively. “He wouldn’t want me talking about that anyway.” 

“No, I’m not seeing Malcolm, but you know, I haven’t seen him in weeks.” Nicola said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he is?” 

“He’s... he’s here.” Moira said. 

“Here like... visiting your friend or something?” Nicola asked. 

“Here as in-“

“Nic’la?” Malcolm’s voice. Sounding hoarse. “What’re you doing here?” 

Nicola turned around and gasped at his appearance. “Malcolm what the _fuck_ happened to you?” 

“Cancer.” Malcolm replied. 

Nicola put her arms around Malcolm and whimpered slightly. It was her first time seeing him in almost three months and now she was seeing him completely bald, horribly thin and gaunt, puffy cheeked. He deep and dark bruising on almost every inch of his body that wasn’t whiter than a sheet and tubes going in and out of his body. He was relying on a Zimmer frame, leaning forward and putting his weight onto it. And it was painfully obvious his pyjamas no longer fitted him. 

A nurse was accompanying him for support and to pull along his IV stand.

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said unconvincingly. 

“You’re Malcolm’s friend?” The nurse asked. 

“Colleague. Friend. Yes.” Nicola nodded. 

“Friend.” Malcolm said. “This is Nicola Murray. She’s a cabinet minister.” 

“A cabinet minister. Well, I don’t know much about that, but I know it’s nice to see Malcolm getting another visitor.” The nurse said. “He’s very popular, you know.”

“Malcolm...” 

“It’s fine, Nic’la.” Malcolm said, almost breathlessly.

“Malcolm, you’ve got cancer and you kept it a secret.” Nicola put her hand on his. “You needn’t have done that.” 

“I-I’m fine.” Malcolm insisted. “Look, some people know. Others don’t. Just because I haven’t announced my disease to the general public, doesn’t mean I’m not okay.”

“And you’re _not_ okay.” Nicola said. “You look awful.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “And you have so many people who care about you in government.” 

“Honestly, Nic’la. I’m fine.” Malcolm said. 

“And you have me. Ollie. Jamie. Sam.” Nicola listed. “Terri and Robyn if you include civil servants too. I know he’s a LibDem now, but you’ve known Glenn a long time. And I’m sure Helen would support you too.”

“I can’t let it get out that I’m sick.” Malcolm said. “Malcolm F Tucker doesn’t get sick.” 

“F?” Moira chuckled. “Your middle name’s _Alasdair_!” 

“Shut up.” Malcolm said. 

“Alistair?” Nicola asked. 

“A-L-A-S-D-A-I-R.” Malcolm spelled. “It was our grandfather’s name.” 

“Very Scottish.” Nicola said. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “I’m going to... I’ll... be seeing you.” He shuffled away with the nurse following him, pushing his IV stand. 

Nicola was frozen to the spot. She couldn’t believe how vulnerable Malcolm looked in the moment. Is that how her friend was going to look when the cancer took hold of her like that?

“The progress of the cancer’s stopped, at least. We’re hoping he’ll go in remission.” Moira said. “I feel so bad for him. He’s always throwing up. Can’t keep anything down. He’s just had a feeding tube refitted. Sleeps sixteen, seventeen hours a day but he’s always tired. And he’s forever having blood transfusions.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Nicola said as they started walking down the corridor together.

“He’s strong though.” Moira said. “He’s fought off sepsis already. I don’t know what I’d do if he were to die. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already planning his funeral out in my head.”

“I honestly can’t imagine what that must be like.” Nicola admitted. 

“He’s my brother. I have to put my feelings aside. After all, I’m not the one wasting away from cancer. Malcolm needs me and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help him.” 

Nicola nodded. “I had no idea.” 

“He’s trying to keep it quiet.” Moira said. “I think there’s only about six or seven or so people outside the family who know. Jamie, his wife, Sam, Cal, Peter, Stewart and Lord Nicholson.” 

“Julius Nicholson knows?” Nicola asked. 

“He’s here regularly.” Moira said. “He stayed away when Malcolm was in his coma though. Family only in intensive care.” 

“Oh my god.” Nicola exclaimed. “It was _true_. Malcolm Tucker really _was_ in a coma.” 

“He’s... yeah.” Moira nodded. “How did you hear that?” 

“Er... my advisor told me.” Nicola said. “He heard it from the Opposition. I don’t know where they heard it from though.” 

Moira whimpered slightly. “The _Opposition_? I can’t predict how Malcolm’s going to react when he finds that out.” 

“I can’t believe he’s been suffering alone.” Nicola said. 

“He’s not been alone.” Moira said. “For the first month, he was with just me and my husband, Dan. But then he got sepsis and was put in an induced coma so I called Jamie, Sam and Cal. Lord Nicholson, Peter Mannion and Stewart Pearson have also been pretty regular visitors.”

“That’s how the Opposition knew then.” Nicola said. “I... I have to-I promised a friend I’d visit her. I’m so sorry that Malcolm’s sick.” 

Moira nodded. “Thank you.” 

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” Nicola said. 

“Me too.” Moira said. 

Nicola walked away from Moira, her encounter with Malcolm playing on her mind as she went to visit her friend.

* * *

After visiting her friend, Nicola was still thinking of Malcolm. She asked where Malcolm’s room was after deciding to visit him too, and knocked on the door to Malcolm’s hospital room. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door and walked in.

Inside, Malcolm was sitting up on his hospital bed, propped up by pillows and surrounded by medical equipment. It was a far cry from how Nicola was used to seeing him. 

“Nic’la?” 

“Hey, Malcolm.” Nicola greeted.

“You’re... here.” Malcolm said. 

“Of course I am.” Nicola said. “I... I just visited a friend of mine. She’s got cancer too.” 

“What type?” Malcolm asked. 

“Lymphoma.” Nicola answered. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“I must say, Malcolm, you’re usually angrier.”

“Aye, it’s the uh... morphine.” Malcolm said. “Mellows me out.” 

“So you’re _really_ sick then?” Nicola asked as she took a seat. 

“Yes.” Malcolm replied. 

“And it’s only your sister here?” 

“Well right now it’s you.” Malcolm said. “But I get a few regular visitors.”

“What about your brother in law?” Nicola asked. 

“He’s a pilot for BA. Currently in Las Vegas, I think.”

“Your wife?” Nicola asked, referring to Malcolm’s now-absent wedding ring.

“I don’t have a wife.” 

“What about the wedding ring?” 

“... I’d rather not get into that.” 

“Malcolm?” 

“She’s dead.” 

Nicola’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Malcolm said. 

“Okay. But it’s not like you to vanish off the face of the earth.” 

“I didn’t vanish.” Malcolm said. “I’ve been right here.” 

“Don’t you have chemotherapy as an outpatient?” 

“Not for the type of cancer I have.” Malcolm said.

“Is it terminal or something?” Nicola asked. “Has it spread everywhere? Malcolm, are you... dying?” 

“No, it’s _not_ terminal, but it doesn’t have good prognosis rates in adults. Yes it _has_ spread everywhere and _hopefully_ I am not dying.” Malcolm answered. 

“Do you mind me asking what cancer you have?” 

“Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yes.” 

“That explains the blood. The disgusting black bruises. The Meningitis looking rash. But not the fainting.” Nicola said. 

“Anaemia.” Malcolm said.

Nicola bit her lip. It was so hard to see him looking so vulnerable and weak and it was no wonder that he told hardly anybody. “Oh Malcolm, I’m so sorry.” 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said. 

“You’re not fine, Malcolm.” Nicola said. “I know you’ve had visitors. But I also know _you_. You don’t take that support because you think it’s you against the world when it doesn’t have to be.”

“I-I...” Malcolm couldn’t think of what to say. Deep down, he knew Nicola was right. Instead, he fiddled with the bandage on his arm. 

“So what happened there?” Nicola asked. 

“I had a drip put in.” Malcolm said. “In fact, I’ve had a lot of those. It’s fairly mundane to me now.”

“You know how sad that sounds, don’t you?” 

“I have to have my blood transfusions somehow.” Malcolm replied.

“Why would you need blood transfusions?” Nicola asked. 

“Because my blood is riddled with disease.” Malcolm said. “I’m so fuckin tired all the time and I don’t notice I become anaemic unless I either faint or one of the doctors takes a sample of my blood from my chest-“

Nicola’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

Malcolm unbuttoned the top buttons of his pyjama top and pulled it aside to show the central line in his chest, resting just under his collarbone. “It’s called a central line. It’s gonna be there till I finish treatment.” 

“That’s weird.” Nicola said, referring to the two attached IV lines. 

“That’s life prolonging.” Malcolm said. 

“So what’s that?” Nicola asked, pointing to the thin yellow tube coming from Malcolm’s nose. 

“Feeding tube.” Malcolm replied. “The whole eating thing is a bit... on and off for me. The mouth sores just got so bad that they had to put it back-“

“Back?!” Nicola exclaimed. 

“I’m _sick_.” Malcolm said. “I might die. You might never see me in the government buildings ever again. 

“I thought you were-you _have_ to get better from this.” Nicola said. “You’re-you’re Malcolm Tucker.” 

“You can’t tell anyone at DoSAC about this.” Malcolm said. 

“But-“

“Please.”

“Malcolm, I have to-“

“Let me put it another way.” Malcolm said. “If you tell _anyone_ at DoSAC about this, I’m going to personally take this tube from my nose and put it down yours into your lungs and make it so that you drown in my feed.” 

“Okay. Perfectly clear.” Nicola nodded. She doubted that Malcolm would be able to do that in his weakened state, and even if he wasn’t, but even so he was making a point. He didn’t want anyone to know, so she wouldn’t tell them. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cocaine abuse is a big problem in Westminster. And it’s definitely been implied in canon (s3.08) that Malcolm used to snort it himself. I think it was in The Missing DoSAC Files that he said he snorted heroin too. Knowing how rife cocaine abuse is among politicians, it’s not difficult to imagine anyone else not snorting it. Even Geoff Holhurst.  
Poor Jamie. His life is shit at home and shit at work.  
But Malcolm’s brain isn’t scrambled anymore. Even if his kidneys are a bit. That might come back to haunt him. Or it might not.  
Jon Snow is not just a character on Game of Thrones. He’s been the face of Channel 4 News since the 80s, I believe.  
Here, Jamie proves that giving up an addiction cold turkey and with no help is never a good idea.  
Re Snap Election, we know that Tom called an election in S3. We know that from Julius and Steve’s conversation in a park that it’s autumn because there’s brown leaves all over the floor. And we know from Malcolm and Nicola’s conversation that it came as a surprise, nobody was expecting an election to be called at that time. Since elections are generally called in spring/summer, the election Tom called had to have been a snap general election.  
Jamie’s turn to be vulnerable. He’s not coping with a lot of things and he’s keeping it bottled up. Learn from Jamie, it’s not cool to bottle up your emotions.  
Yes, it was 12°C in London on the day that I had Jamie have this meltdown. It’s a pain looking up past temperatures and weathers but know that it’s not made up and is accurate.  
A bit of Jamie’s internal thought processes.  
Nicola’s friend is diagnosed with cancer and she sees Malcolm. I know the cancer unit at Guy’s and St Thomas’s is at Guy’s Hospital, but I moved it to St Thomas’s for plot reasons and conveniences.  
Malcolm’s middle name being Alasdair is becoming a running joke.  
Malcolm’s back on the feeding tube, but he’s able to walk around, albeit aided, for short distances now. It’s like one step forward, two steps back. Will he go into remission? Well, yes. We know that from the Intro chapter.  
Next time, Malcolm gets some good news from his haematologist and oncologist about his cancer.


	7. Holding Onto Hope

It had been a week since she’d found out about Malcolm’s illness and Nicola was still visiting regularly. Only for around half an hour at a time, but it was still regular. She had assured him that she hadn’t told anyone at DoSAC about his disease. He’d confided more in her about it. 

“It hurts, Nic’la.” Malcolm said. “I don’t say this for you to feel sorry for me-Malcolm F Tucker needs nobody’s pity.”

“But your middle name’s Alasdair.” Nicola said.

“Nice to know you can still joke around me.” Malcolm said. “Everyone else treats me with kid gloves.”

“Well, I think I owe that to my friend with lymphoma.” Nicola said. “She’s starting treatment tomorrow.” 

“You’ve mentioned her a few times.” Malcolm said. “What’s her name?”

“Lisa.” Nicola said. “If you don’t mind me asking... how bad is it?” 

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t wish any of this on the Shadow Cabinet.” Malcolm said. “Or any Tory. It’s just so fuckin _brutal_.” 

“Is this it? Are you just... how long are you going to be in the hospital for?” Nicola asked. 

“For as long as I need to be.” Malcolm replied. “Today’s a good day. I mean, I’m not having any chemo today.”

“Don’t you have it all the time?” 

“Nicola. They’re dripping _poison_ into my chest. I need days off to let my body recover.” 

“Wouldn’t that make the cancer grow back?” 

“I don’t know.” Malcolm admitted. “I’m a journalist, not an oncologist.” 

“Oh, so you _were_ a journalist then.” Nicola said. “Only some of us, well, we had this bet, see-“ 

“Don’t. I’m not in the fucking mood.” Malcolm said. 

Nicola looked up at the blood bag on the IV stand by Malcolm’s bed. “So. What’s your blood type?” She asked. 

“A positive.” Malcolm replied. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, you can see it on the... thing.” 

Treatment made Malcolm very tired. Some words came easily to him. Others... well, they didn’t.

“The blood bag.” Nicola offered. 

“Yeah, the blood bag.” Malcolm said. “I hate this entire situation. It’s... well, it’s just cancer.” 

“You might die.” Nicola said. 

“I can’t think about that.” Malcolm said. 

Nicola squeezed Malcolm’s hand. “I honestly-Malcolm, I can’t imagine.” 

Almost at that moment, a nurse walked in. “Afternoon, Malcolm.” 

“Hey.” Malcolm greeted. 

“And who’s this?” 

“This is my friend Nicola. She’s a cabinet minister.”

“Hello.” Nicola greeted.

“Oh hello, Minister.” The nurse greeted and turned back to Malcolm. “How are you feeling today? Any new pain?”

“Not really.”

“Where would you say it was on a scale of one to ten?”

“Today, about... about a nine.” 

The nurse grimaced. “That bad?”

“It’s not that it’s-it’s just constant. And everywhere.” 

“I’ll see if we can put you on a higher dosage of morphine.” The nurse said. “Besides that, are you feeling okay? It’s important you tell us. Having sepsis once can mean you’re more likely to-“

“I feel okay.” Malcolm said. “Well I mean not _really_. I have cancer and I’m having a blood transfusion, but I don’t feel like I’m about to drop down dead at the moment.” 

The nurse nodded and looked at Malcolm’s vitals. “Your heart rate’s elevated. That could be the pain though. I’ll get your doctors here and we’ll see what we can do.”

The nurse left and Nicola looked at Malcolm. “I’m going to head off. Work to do.” 

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon.” Malcolm said. 

* * *

Peter Mannion was in his office completing some paperwork (actually on paper) when his phone rang. He picked it up and answered it. 

“_Afternoon, Peter._” It was Stewart. 

“Hello, Stewart.” Peter said. “What are you calling me about now?” 

“_Labour’s acting communications director is acting a bit, well, loopy_.” Stewart said. “_Have you seen the papers today?_” 

“Of course I have.” Peter said. “Look, Stewart, is this going anywhere? Only I’m about to get off my for my lunch break.” 

“_It’s three in the afternoon, Peter_.” 

“I had a lot of paperwork and I haven’t been to visit Malcolm Tucker in hospital for a few days.” 

“_Naughty. He’s the Government. We’re the Opposition_.” 

“This isn’t politics, Stewart. This is-he’s a person. A human. And he’s very sick.” 

“_I know, I’ve been to see him myself_.” Stewart said with a slight sigh. “_I don’t entirely hate him. He’s a good person underneath all that shouting and screaming and_-“

“Swearing and violent threats.” Peter finished. “I just can’t believe you’re praising a member of the opposing Party. 

“_Yeah, well... he **is** dying. So have you seen the papers?_” Stewart asked. 

Peter inhaled sharply. “No, I haven’t.” 

“_It seems Jamie MacDonald has had a little meltdown of Three Mile Island proportions._” Stewart said. “_Three MacDonald Island_.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Stewart.” Peter said with a sigh.

“_Like Three Mile Island_.” Stewart said.

Peter sighed loudly.

“_Well, my thinking is that if we can take advantage of Jamie MacDonald’s little meltdown, we can show that he’s not exactly fit to hold the office of communications director and_-“

“And what _exactly_, Stewart?” Peter asked. “They’ll hire Malcolm Tucker back? It’s not like he’s been a naughty boy and been fired for snorting cocaine and groping a backbench MP, he’s got cancer. He hasn’t left the hospital since November.” 

“_We can try and get a snap general election-_“

“It’s January, Stewart. Only idiots and people who live in the Southern Hemisphere call snap general elections in January. Or February. Or December.” 

“_But Tom Davis called one in_-“

“He’s an idiot. Much like you are.” Peter snapped. He hung his head and sighed. “Look, I’m always up for calling a press conference to show how untrustworthy Jamie MacDonald is at his job. How he allegedly sobbed in the corner of Tom Davis’ office in Number 10, but what good would it do?”

“_It would show that Labour are no good for the country and that people can trust the Tories not to make a pig’s ear out of._..” 

“Cancer?” Peter finished, not so helpfully. 

“_Yeah, but Jamie MacDonald is clearly incompetent at his job._” Stewart said. 

“Or dangerously over his head.” Peter said. 

“_Oh. Yes. Perfect angulating, Peter_.” 

“Oh no.” Peter muttered under his breath. He knew this conversation with Stewart Pearson was sounding entirely too... _normal_. 

“_Jamie isn’t **incompetent**. He’s **inexperienced**. Out of his depth, like a little person at a wave pool.” _Stewart said. _“Now we need to whirl this outlook out to the editors this evening then tomorrow, we go to Bill Turnbull and Susanna Reid at sunup for the voters to be like...” _he made a funny noise down the phone. 

Peter frowned in confusion. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“_Drop noises_.” 

“Stop it. It’s weird.” 

“_But you’re not getting the deets if I don’t-_“

“I don’t care.” Peter said. 

“_Okay._” Stewart said. “_Well, Billy T and Susy S-“_

_“_Bill Turnbull and Susanna Reid.” 

“_They’re the big brekkie guys, right? So we go on BBC for Brekkie and spin some ideas over to our bezzie mates, Billy T and Susy S and maybe we have a little mention of Jamie M being out of his depth like an obese toddler in a wave pool.” _

“Please tell me you don’t want me to make that specific analogy.” 

“_You can if you want. But the point is about Jamie M being driven to the point of suicide_-“

“I’m not trying to get him to kill himself!” Peter said. 

“_No, I get that._” Stewart said. “_I’m saying he’s already wanting a snap election. We’re gonna give him one.” _

* * *

“Have you seen the papers today?” Malcolm asked Julius the next morning. 

Julius, who was delicately eating a breakfast wrap, nodded. “Yes, I have. Have you?” 

Malcolm grunted by way of a reply. “The nausea’s worn off a bit so I can read now.” 

“And you’ve seen something that worries you?” Julius asked. 

“The Tories are after Jamie.” Malcolm said. 

“Yes, I had a feeling they might.” Julius said. 

“Why?” Malcolm demanded. He may have been bald, thin, pale and hooked up to medical equipment, but he knew well enough that his past behaviour was intimidating enough for people to still be scared of him. 

Julius included. “Yes. Well...” he lowered his breakfast wrap, “James had a panic attack or something in Tom’s office last week. He burst in demanding a snap general election and began sobbing in a corner. Then he left without saying a word. It was very out of character. I’ve never heard of him acting like this before.” 

“That _is_ a wee bit worrying.” Malcolm admitted. “I’m assuming it’s Stewart Pearson after Jamie, right?” 

“I believe it’s Peter Mannion.” 

“Acting on the orders of Stewart Pearson.” 

“He went on BBC Breakfast to talk to Bill Turnbull and Susanna Reid this morning,” Julius said, “wherein he discussed how unfit for his work he believed James to be. I believe he said that James was ‘as our of his depth as a morbidly obese toddler in a swimming pool’.” 

“That’s a bit... erm... harsh.” Malcolm said. “What are you going to do about it?” 

“Me?” Julius asked.

“You.” Malcolm confirmed. “You’re a Lord. You have say. Input. You got me my job back-“

“Because you blackmailed-“

“Which is beside the point.” Malcolm shifted his position in his bed. “Right now, Jamie’s in trouble and if Jamie’s in trouble, the Party’s in trouble. Tom will want to hire a new...” he waved his hand trying to think of the term, “you know, _my_ job. He’s going to want to bring a new one in. _You_ can’t let him. It has to stay Jamie.” 

“But James is unhinged.” Julius argued. 

“Would you rather he bring in another Steve Fleming?” Malcolm asked, raising a bald eyebrow. 

“Well, no, but-“

“I don’t care how you do it, but Jamie _needs_ to stay. At least until I’m better.” 

“But you have cancer, Malcolm, there’s no guarantee you will get better.” Julius said. 

“I’m not _dying_, Julius.” Malcolm said. “Unless _you’ve_ heard something from my oncologist or my haematologist that _I_ haven’t.” 

“I haven’t.” Julius said. “I have heard some hearsay that you’re drawing up a will. Is that true?”

Malcolm said nothing. 

It was true, however. He’d contacted his MacMillan nurse to discuss his options. The NHS called a solicitor. Malcolm met with that solicitor the previous afternoon. He had talked about his affairs with that solicitor. Also with that solicitor, he had spent hours drawing up a will in which he’d left his house to Dan and Moira and a few thousand each to Ellie and Keir. He’d also left Jamie’s kids some money. Then Malcolm’s haematologist and a nurse both witnessed the will. And that was it. It was official. 

“If you haven’t already, then you should.” Julius said. “Cancer is unpredictable, Malcolm. I have had family members die from cancer.” 

“So have I, but this is 2011. Medicine has moved on since the Dark Ages.” 

“The Dark Ages-Malcolm, may I remind you that I am only a _few_ years older than you are.” 

“Then we both had family alive in the Dark Ages, didn’t we?” Malcolm said. “Now get the fuck out of my sight with that breakfast wrap before I vomit on you again.” 

“Still nauseous?” Julius asked. 

“Yes. And I can’t eat. I still have a feeding tube.” Malcolm said. “And everything tastes funny. Weirdly metallic. I don’t like it.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing that you’re being fed through a tube.” Julius said. 

“I miss _actual_ food though.” Malcolm said. 

“Like my breakfast wrap?” Julius asked.

“No.” Malcolm said. “Now get the fuck out.” 

* * *

That afternoon, Malcolm woke up to his sister sitting at his bedside, watching BBC News on the small telly that was in his room. 

“Moira.” He mumbled. 

“Malcolm?” Moira asked. “Are you okay?” 

“‘M fine.” Malcolm said. “They upped the pain meds yesterday.”

“Are you more comfortable?” 

Malcolm nodded. “Yeah, I s’pose.” He said. “I’m not dying yet.” 

“No.” Moira agreed. “You’re not.” 

“But... but I might.” He said, turning his head towards Moira. “I might die. And we need to talk about that.” 

“No, don’t.” Moira put her hand on Malcolm’s. “Don’t be maudlin.” 

“I’ve already nearly died _twice_, Moira.”

“Yes, but once was because of your drug addiction.” 

“And the second time wasn’t.” Malcolm said, thinking back to his terrifying experience while in the coma. “We _really_ need to talk about this.” 

“Had the cancer spread? Has it metastasised?” Moira asked. 

“It’s Leukaemia, Moira. Where would it spread to?” Malcolm asked. 

Moira shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that I don’t want to lose you. You’re literally the only family I have left.” 

“There’s Aoife. And CC-“

“They’re our cousins.” Moira said. “You’re my brother. It’s not exactly the same.”

“You have Dan and your kids.” Malcolm said. “Christ, why’d you have to marry a guy called Dan?”

“I get it, you don’t like Dan.” Moira said. “But Dan is there for me. He’s supporting you too. He’s going on less flights and spending more time with the kids so I can be here with you.” 

“I know.” Malcolm said, his voice barely a whisper. 

“So you have to tell me. Have you received a worse prognosis?” 

Malcolm sighed. “No.” 

“So why talk about you dying if we don’t need to?” Moira asked.

“Because look how fast the sepsis came on.” Malcolm said. “Something that’s _not_ the cancer could kill me-“

Malcolm didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because into the room walked Ben Swain. 

“I’d heard rumours that you were dying. And here you are.” 

“Fuck off.” Malcolm said. 

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way-“

“I don’t care. I’m having a private conversation here with my sister.” Malcolm said. 

“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Ben said. 

“I have a niece, don’t I?” 

“Yeah, well... you might have had a brother.” Ben pointed out. “And that niece could be your brother’s daughter.” 

“Yes.” 

“So what’s your name?” Ben asked. 

“Susan.” Malcolm said.

“Really?” 

“No, not really.” Moira said. “It’s Moira.” 

“Yeah, that sounds much more Scottish.” Ben said. “Are you, you know... like Malcolm?” 

“What are you asking?” Moira asked. “If I’m Scottish? Yes. If I’ve ever taken drugs? No. If I drink? Yes, I like wine, but I don’t drink it to excess-“

“Are you in politics?” 

“No, I’m not.” Moira said. “I’m a teacher.” 

“So you’re not like Malcolm then?” Ben asked.

“What do you mean?” Moira asked. 

“He means ‘scary’ and ‘sweary’ and ‘threatening’.” Malcolm said. 

“Oh no. I’m not scary or threatening and neither is Malc.” Moira said. 

“She is sweary though.” Malcolm said.

“But Malcolm _is_ scary. He’s _very_ scary.” Ben looked down at Malcolm in the hospital bed. Malcolm grinned in a threatening manner at him, causing Ben to immediately turn his gaze away. Even wasting away from cancer, Malcolm Tucker was completely and utterly terrifying.

“He’s a big teddy bear really.” Moira said. 

“Can you stop trying to make friends with the second most incompetent person in the Cabinet and can the second most incompetent man in the Cabinet kindly fuck off out of this room?” Malcolm said. 

“If I’m the second most incompetent, then who’s the most-“

“Wouldn’t you like to know, now piss off.” Malcolm said. 

Ben put his hands up. “Okay.” He said and walked out. 

“Moira. We really do need to talk.” Malcolm shifted. “Just because I got disturbed-“

Malcolm’s oncologist walked in, along with his haematologist. 

“Afternoon, Malcolm. Moira.” Dr Rutter greeted. 

“Good afternoon.” Dr Thomas greeted.

Malcolm rested his head back against the pillow. He didn’t want to hear what they were going to say next.

Moira grabbed the corner of one of Malcolm’s blankets, bracing herself for what she was going to hear. 

“As you might have guessed, we’re here with some news regarding your cancer.” Dr Thomas said. “You would like your sister to be here for this, I assume.” 

“Yeah. I want her here.” Malcolm said. 

Moira patted his hand. 

“May I ask who we just passed coming out of your room? He looks familiar only I don’t think I’ve ever seen him here before.” Dr Rutter said. 

“He’s a colleague.” Malcolm said. 

Dr Rutter nodded. “Ah. I see.” He said in understanding that he’d probably seen this man on the news somewhere. 

“Alright. The news.” Dr Thomas said. “Well, the good news is that the latest drug we’ve added to your chemotherapy regimen, idarubicin, seems to have worked. You’re in remission.” 

Moira’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.” She put her head in her hands. She was braced for tears of sadness now she was trying not to cry tears of joy.

“You’re joking.” Malcolm said. 

Dr Rutter smiled. “No. We’re not. This is very good news, Malcolm.” 

“So I don’t need any more treatment?” Malcolm asked. 

“Well... yes, you do. You need a lot more treatment.” Dr Thomas said. “Consolidation treatment will start. Considering that you had nine rounds of induction chemotherapy, well, we are a bit concerned about that.” 

“How so?” Malcolm asked. 

“It’s going to get more intense from here.” Dr Rutter said. “And treatment will last months, potentially longer.” 

“You... you’re worried if I can take it.” Malcolm said. 

“Yes.” Dr Thomas nodded. 

“What if he _can’t_ take it?” Moira asked.

“Lower doses of drugs don’t work as effectively as higher doses of drugs so Malcolm really only has two options; several rounds of chemotherapy, or a stem cell transplant.” Dr Thomas explained. “He could also, potentially, have both. He may have chemotherapy followed by a stem cell transplant.” 

“Tell me which one I’ll be having.” Malcolm said. “Put me out of my misery.” 

“We’ll be sticking with the chemotherapy for now.” Dr Thomas said. “Although the drugs will be changing. Rather than cytarabine, daunorubicin and idarubicin, you will be having mitoxantrone and cytarabine.”

“Mitoxantrone.” Malcolm repeated. “Elaine. She had that.”

“Malcolm, you’re not Elaine.” Moira said. 

“I’m sorry, what’s happening?” Dr Rutter asked. 

“Malcolm’s wife, she died of advanced breast cancer in 1998.” Moira explained. 

“Oh I’m so sorry. This must be so hard for you, Malcolm.” Dr Rutter said. “But you’re in remission now. And consolidation is about keeping you in remission.”

“When will treatment start then?” Malcolm asked. 

“In a few days.” Dr Thomas said. “We want to start as soon as possible because we don’t want any possible leukaemic cells to come back.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow to explain your treatment in more detail.” Dr Thomas said.

“Congratulations, though, Malcolm.” Dr Rutter said. “We’re very happy for you being in remission.” 

Malcolm simply nodded, knowing that despite remission, his ordeal was not going to get any easier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been on holiday which is why this hasn’t been updated in a while. I’m back now and I’ll update when I can.  
Next chapter will feature a substantial time skip of around half a year. We’ll also check in on our Tory friends as well as meeting Jamie’s family for the first time. Malcolm will be going back to work. And we will be meeting a character who has yet to show up.


	8. Couldn’t Walk But Tried to Run

Moira walked through the front door of Malcolm’s house, supporting her older brother who lagged only slightly behind. 

“Malcolm, it’s good to see you back home.” Dan said. 

“Yeah, just because I’m home, doesn’t mean I’m better.” Malcolm said. 

“He still needs weekly treatment.” Moira said. “And he’s come home with chemotherapy pills among other pills.” 

“I didn’t know they made chemotherapy in pill form.” Dan said. 

“Now you do.” Malcolm said. He put his hand on the wall. His wall. He hadn’t been here since November. It was May now. He’d almost forgotten what his house looked like. The layout. The colour of the walls. All he knew over the last half a year was St Thomas’s Hospital. 

“Uncle Malcolm!” Ellie shouted and ran towards him. 

Moira gasped loudly. “Elspeth!” She didn’t mean to shout, it just came out that way. 

Ellie stopped short of crashing into Malcolm. “What’s wrong?” 

“Your Uncle Malcolm is very sick.” Dan said. 

“Still?” Ellie asked. 

“Yes.” Dan nodded. 

“But he’s not in hospital no more.” Ellie pointed out. 

“That doesnae mean I’m better, Ellie.” Malcolm said, making his way over to the sofa. He just wanted to sit down. 

“Have you still got that Leukaemia?” Ellie asked. 

“Yes, I do.” Malcolm said as he sat down. “It makes me tired and out of breath and very sick. I’m getting treated for it. But the treatment, that’s _also_ making me sick.”

Ellie clambered over time him. “So stop the treatment.” 

“I cannae do that, darlin’.” Malcolm said. “If I did, I’d die.” 

“Please don’t die, Uncle Malcolm.” Ellie said. 

“I can’t promise anything.” Malcolm said softly as he put an arm around his young niece. 

“You’re getting better though, Malcolm.” Moira said. “There’s much less cancer in your blood than there was before. There’s practically nothing now-“

“But I still have to be treated.” Malcolm said. 

“Are you going back to work?” Dan asked. “Do you plan on it? Or are you going to get an eas-different job?” 

“You were going to say ‘easier’, weren’t you, Dan.” Malcolm said. 

“No.” Dan clearly lied. “I wasn’t.” 

“Where’s Keir?” Malcolm asked, finally noticing his nephew wasn’t around. 

“School.” Moira said. “Ellie’s not there because she wanted to stay home to greet you.” 

Ellie put her arms around Malcolm. “Welcome home, Uncle Malcolm.” She said. 

Malcolm held around Ellie. “Thanks, Ellie darlin’.” 

“Onwards and upwards now then, eh, Malc?” Dan said. 

Malcolm nodded. “I suppose. I _have_ made it this far, after all. Who’s to say I won’t make it further?” 

* * *

Malcolm’s alarm went off. He hit snooze. He just wasn’t ready to be up yet. Chemotherapy was still wiping him out, but the sessions were, thankfully, a lot less frequent now. He wanted a bit of time to sleep before the nurse would be in to check his heart rate and take blood through his chest and ask how he was feeling. He sighed and woke up and looked around, realising that he was in his own bedroom in his own house. 

He was at home, as he had been for the past two months. Yes and he was going to work that morning. He remembered that he’d set his alarm earlier than usual because his routine had changed quite a bit. There was _no_ nurse doing morning rounds. He didn’t have a chemo session that week. 

Work. His first day back. He had to look fine for the press. No doubt they’d photograph him looking in this state. Bald. Thin. Pale. Puffy. But he had to show them and the opposing parties that he was just fine thank you very much. 

He got up out of bed, stroked his daughter’s urn and padded over to the bathroom where he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. But he also looked better than he had done. The pale could be taken away by makeup. The bald could be taken away by a wig or a hat. But the feeding tube taped to his face couldn’t be hidden.

He sighed and proceeded to brush his teeth. He wasn’t bleeding from the gums, nor had he done in a while. His blood was still not completely healthy, but it was getting there. The nosebleeds has stopped, he didn’t always bleed when he brushed his teeth and whenever he cut himself, the bleeding was getting less severe. He stripped his pyjamas off and washed himself with a sponge and a face towel. He didn’t have the energy to stand in a shower. Then again, he didn’t have the energy to do much of anything these days.

He put his pyjamas back on and slowly carried on downstairs, holding the bannister handrail as he went. In the kitchen was his sister Moira.

“Hey, Malcolm.” Moira greeted. 

“Hey, Moira.” Malcolm sat down at the table. “Where’s Dan?” 

“Already gone to work.” Moira said. “He had to work an early flight to San Fransisco.” 

Malcolm nodded. “Right.” 

“Breakfast time?” Moira asked. 

“I can’t wait not to taste it.” Malcolm said. 

“I wonder what tube feed actually tastes like.” Moira said as she got the equipment ready to do Malcolm’s morning feeding. 

“Dog shit probably.” Malcolm said. 

“You can’t say that.” Moira said.

“Has anyone actually ever eaten it-anyone who doesn’t have it injected in their stomach or down their nose?” Malcolm asked.

Moira shrugged. “You know, I don’t actually know.”

“Maybe I should google that.” Malcolm said. 

“Alright.” Moira moved to Malcolm’s side and opened the cap on his feeding tube. “Keep your head up.”

“What the fuck am I going to do, Moira, put my head back down on the table so I can take a nap at six am?” Malcolm asked. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Moira said firmly and injected the warm water down the tube to flush it. 

Feeding took longer than Malcolm would have liked. Afterwards, he went upstairs to his bedroom to get dressed, which Moira helped him with again. He absolutely could dress himself. He dressed himself in t-shirts, jeans, jogging bottoms and fleeces, but nothing with buttons. And since his suits had buttons on them, well, Moira helped him with that. 

“My suits are all too big.” Malcolm complained. 

“They’re not big, they’re baggy. You’ve lost a lot of weight, Malc.” Moira said. “You’ve got cancer. You’ve been in a coma. And don’t forget, you can’t physically eat anymore either.” 

“I need to buy new suits, don’t I?” Malcolm asked. 

“Probably.” Moira said. “Though maybe you should have done that _before_ you made that agreement with the Prime Minister and Jamie to go back to work.” 

“It’s only part time while I’m on my chemo.” Malcolm said. 

“Malcolm...”

“I know.” 

“You’re lucky to be here.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re even luckier to still have a job.” 

Malcolm sighed. “I know.” 

Moira stepped back from her brother. “You look good.”

“I don’t.” Malcolm said, pulling at his baggy shirt.

“Considering what you’ve been through, I’d say you look good.” Moira said. “I’ll go and get the kids.” 

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “The kids.” 

Moira walked out of Malcolm’s bedroom, leaving him alone. 

Malcolm put his glasses on and looked at himself in the mirror. He hated the way he looked now. He had no colour to his face. No hair. No eyebrows. No eyelashes. That yellow tube in his nostril, taped to his puffed up and bloated cheek. His baggy suit. He was skin and bone. He looked sick. He _was_ sick. But he looked it too. 

He took his glasses off and kept them in his suit pocket before consulting his watch for the time. He’d need to be in work soon. Very soon. He walked out of his room.

“Uncle Malcolm!” Ellie greeted him cheerfully on the landing.

Malcolm forced a smile. “Hey, Ellie.” 

“Your suit looks weird.” Ellie said. 

“It’s... it’s just a bit baggy.” Malcolm said. “I’ve lost a lot of weight.” 

“Your face is fat though.” Ellie noted.

“That’s the steroids, darlin’.” Malcolm said. 

Ellie nodded and ran down the stairs. 

“Hey, Uncle Malcolm.” Keir said as he passed Malcolm on the landing. 

“Hey, Keir.” Malcolm greeted. 

Keir ran down the stairs as fast as his little legs could get down the steps. 

Malcolm grabbed the handrail for balance and walked down the stairs after him. 

“You doing okay?” Moira asked, meeting him at the bottom. Can you manage this?” 

“I’ll be fine, Moira.” Malcolm said. “I promise.” 

“Call me if you need me, yeah.” 

“You need to go back to work yourself.” Malcolm said. 

“I know.” Moira nodded. 

Malcolm walked into the living room for his shoes. 

“Uncle Malcolm!” Ellie shouted. 

“Ellie, darlin’!” Malcolm forced a smile as he put his shoes on. 

Keir slipped down from his chair and ran to get Malcolm’s walking stick. “Here, Uncle Malcolm.” 

Malcolm raised his head to see his little nephew holding out his walking stick. Cancer was a horrible thing for a kid to have to see. He hated that _already_ Keir knew his weaknesses. And Keir was much younger than his political enemies by roughly forty to fifty years. But Keir was different. Keir was his nephew and he was trying to help. He knew that Malcolm relied on a walking stick or crutches to keep his balance or a wheelchair when he got too tired. 

“Thanks, Keir.” Malcolm said, taking his walking stick from Keir. He stood up from his chair and leaned heavily on the stick. 

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Moira asked. 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said. “My car’ll be here soon.” 

“Thank god you’re not walking.” Moira said. “From Lambeth all the way to Downing Street?” 

“It’d kill me in my state.” Malcolm said. 

Moira wrapped her arms around her brother. “Don’t push yourself too much.” 

Malcolm looked uncomfortable while Moira hugged him. “Yeah.” He said. “I’ll be back soon.”

“See that you are.” Moira said. 

Malcolm walked out of his house and caught his car into work. He walked into Number 10 leaning heavily on his walking stick, and realised he’d have to get a new ID card made now that he didn’t have any hair. 

“Welcome back, Malcolm.” 

“Good to see you back here.” 

“Nice to have you back.” 

Malcolm nodded and smiled at everyone who greeted him even though he was not in the mood. He took the lift up to his office, leaned his walking stick against the wall and sat down in his chair, almost in disbelief that he was back. He never thought he’d be back at Number 10, but here he was. Ready to pick up where he left off months ago. 

“Morning, Malcolm.” Sam greeted. “We’ve missed you around here.”

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded. “Was my replacement nice or something?” He asked, before remembering that Jamie had been the one standing in for him.

Sam smiled. “Your replacement was _Jamie_. He’s a good attack dog. Not so good for issuing orders.” 

“Don’t tell him you said that.” Malcolm said. “He’ll have your head on a plate.” 

“He’s giving the morning briefing now.” Sam said. 

“Right.” Malcolm nodded. He’d expected not to be the one giving the briefing. And at least it was Jamie and not another Steve fucking Fleming. 

“So, how are _you_?” Sam asked. 

“Weak. But getting better.” Malcolm admitted. 

“I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” Sam said. 

“Well, the good news is, I’m here.” Malcolm said. “I’m fine. Ish. And the even better news is that you’re not going to the funeral of one Malcolm F Tucker.” 

“But your middle name is Alasdair.” 

Malcolm sighed. “Yes it is.” 

“Is that it? You’re just better now?” 

“No.” Malcolm said. “I’m still in treatment. I’ll be going to the hospital weekly to have blood tests and transfusions. Maybe at the end of it all, I’ll need a stem cell transplant.”

“Stem cell transplant?” Sam frowned. 

“Yeah, Moira’s been tested and she’s a match.” Malcolm said. “Though if it happens, I’ll be on immunosuppressants for the rest of my life.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“Well, it might not even happen. So don’t worry about that right now. I’m not.” 

“I can imagine you have more important things on your mind.” Sam said. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “Nearly dying really is the best thing to teach you to live in the fucking moment-not that I recommend it.” 

“Do you want me to help with the-“ Sam reached for the stack of newspapers.

“Nah I can read them myself.” Malcolm said. 

“Do you need a tea or a coffee?” 

Malcolm tapped the NG tube that was taped to his face. “Can’t.” 

“What is that anyway?” Sam asked. 

“Feeding tube.” Malcolm replied. “I can’t eat anything, so nutrients are pumped into my stomach for me. I can drink a bit of water though. So no tea or coffee. Just a cup of water. Thanks.” 

Sam nodded and walked out of the room.

Malcolm picked up the first newspaper on the pile, the Guardian, and began to read it.

* * *

A little later on, Malcolm grabbed his walking stick and decided to visit the ministers. To convince (bully) them into following the Party line and bollock them if they didn’t.

Most were very surprised to see him, let alone for him to be so intimidating in his condition. A sitting down Malcolm Tucker was just as terrifying as a standing up Malcolm Tucker when it came to doling out bollockings to government ministers who deserved it.

Finally, he made it to DoSAC. He was slower than usual, that was due to him not being able to walk very far without sitting and being unable to stand and take calls so he sat for them instead. But the big thing was that he actually did make it to DoSAC.

As he had with the other government departments, Malcolm looked around. He didn’t think he’d ever be back here. He hoped. But he didn’t expect anything. And just as with the other departments, something felt different. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but it just felt... _different_.

Ollie passed and took one look at Malcolm. “Sorry, this isn’t the old folks’ home, that’s in another part of the city-“

“Ollie, it’s me.” Malcolm said. “Malcolm Tucker.” 

Ollie stopped dead in his tracks. “Jesus Christ I thought you’d died or something. We _all_ thought you’d died.” 

“Well, I came close.” Malcolm admitted. 

“Nicola’s in her office.“ Ollie said.

“I know.” Malcolm said. “I’m here to see her. I’ve seen the other ministers. Nicola’s last on Tom’s list.”

“Jesus you’re here to _work_?!” Ollie asked. “In _that_ state?” 

“Oh what?” Malcolm said defensively. “People with cancer can’t work now?”

“No, I never said that-I just meant... I mean, of course people with cancer _should_ work-“

Malcolm interrupted Ollie. “That’s truly _amazing_, Ollie, I had no idea you were secretly a Tory. Must be all that shagging of that girlfriend of yours. Her right wing cryptofascistic beliefs are rubbing off on you.” 

“Well there’s fuck all wrong with you, is there?” Ollie said sarcastically. 

“Hey!” Malcolm exclaimed. “I have cancer! Keep digging yourself that hole though, you’re going to-“

“Malcolm Tucker.” Terri said in surprise. “You-you’re...” 

“I know, I know. I look awful. People have told me and contrary to popular opinion, I _am_ actually in the possession of mirrors.” Malcolm said. 

“You’ve been gone for _months_.” Terri said. “Rumours have been circulating.”

“What kind?” Malcolm asked. 

“The ‘not good’ kind.” Ollie said. 

“Well, either get me a fucking chair take me to Nicola and then get me a fucking chair.” Malcolm said. “I’m fatigued. I can’t stand for long.” 

“You’re completely bald.” Terri said. 

“Yeah, that’ll be because of the fucking cancer treatment.” Malcolm said. 

“You have _cancer_?!” Terri exclaimed. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re not making it up for attention?” Terri asked. 

“Why the fucking fuck would I do _that_?” Malcolm asked in disgust. 

“People _do_ make up having cancer.” Terri said. “For attention or monetary gain or-“

”I’m no Walter fucking Mitty, Terri.” Malcolm said. 

“I was thinking more Munchhausen’s.” Ollie said. 

“Oi.” Malcolm snapped. “Just you fucking watch it, you posh Oxbridge cunt.” 

“So you really _do_ have cancer then?” Terri asked. 

“You can’t make up this level of hair loss. I mean I have no fucking eyelashes. I have no fucking _pubes_.” Malcolm sighed. “I _really do_ have cancer, Terri, for real.”

“Oh no. How long do you have left to live?” Terri asked. 

“Longer than _you_ do if you don’t bring Nicola to me and get me a fucking chair.” Malcolm growled. 

Terri and Ollie parted to let Malcolm into the department and he made his way over to Nicola’s office, in his own time, being stared at by civil servants. He didn’t care or rather, he tried not to let it bother him, and he tapped on Nicola’s office door with the end of his walking stick and burst in anyway. 

“Jesus Christ, _Jamie_!” Nicola exclaimed. 

“I think you’ll find I’m _not_ Jamie.” Malcolm said. 

“I’m sorry, Malcolm.” Nicola said, not surprised in the least by Malcolm’s gaunt, pale and completely bald appearance. “I just assumed you were Jamie.” 

“_Malcolm_?” Helen’s eyes opened wide. “Oh my god.” 

“Yeah, that’s what _everyone’s_ saying.” Malcolm said. “Fucking find something new to say or keep your fat trap shut, right?” He turned to Nicola. “Stand up.” 

“Why?” Nicola asked.

“Just stand up, for fuck’s sake!” Malcolm said in exasperation.

Nicola stood up from the chair. 

Malcolm walked over to Nicola’s chair and sat down, putting his walking stick on Nicola’s desk.

At almost that point, Helen tried to stop him. “You can’t claim this office, it’s Nicola’s-“

“Yes it is.” Malcolm said. “But I am undergoing treatment for Leukaemia and it’s making me very fucking tired. Therefore, I need to sit down. Now tell me, how the fuck has this miserable fucking department coped without me?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with you then, is there?” Helen asked sarcastically. 

“Hey!” Malcolm tapped at his bald head. “Cancer.” 

“It’s nice to see you back to your usual aggressive self, Malcolm.” Nicola said. 

“It’s nice to be back, even if it’s only part time and I’m sharing this job with Jamie.” Malcolm said. “I’ve got maintenance chemo to get through.” 

“How long for?” Helen asked. 

“A long time.” Malcolm said. “That is, unless I have a stem cell transplant.” 

“How long will that take?” Helen asked. 

“Enough time for them to destroy my immune system, stick my sister’s bone marrow inside me and wait for my immune system to build itself back up again.” Malcolm said. “But this isn’t about me. This is about _you_.” He pointed his walking stick at Nicola.

“Come on, Malcolm, I knew about your cancer-“

“_You_ _knew_?” Ollie asked. 

“I’ve known since January.” Nicola said. 

“Jesus Christ.” Helen exclaimed. 

“How have you coped without me?” Malcolm repeated. “Any crises need sorting?” 

“Um... not right now.” Nicola said. “I think we-um, Terri-that is to say we... we have it sorted.” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Then what’s with the humming and hawing?” 

“Nothing.” Terri said.

Malcolm hummed. “Don’t think that just because I’ve got cancer and I’ve been in hospital and I’ve been in a coma that I’m not keeping up with the news. I am.” 

“Wait, you’ve been in a coma?” Helen asked. 

“Yes.” Malcolm said. 

“What’s it like?” Helen asked. 

Malcolm paused as he thought of the answer. He thought back to his nightmares of shapeshifting aliens appearing as people in government-people that he knew. He just didn’t know what to say. “Not good.” He said after a while.

“Did you have any weird coma dreams like you see in movies or the TV?” Terri asked. 

“Er...” Malcolm thought about how he would answer that. “Yeah. But I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“How did you go to the toilet, exactly?” Ollie asked. “I mean you’d have a catheter, obviously, but the shitting part-“

“Nappies. Next question.” Malcolm said with a sigh.

“What, like a baby?” Robyn asked as she entered the room carrying four cups of coffee. 

Malcolm grunted. “No. And no more fucking questions about how I shat while I was unconscious.” 

“Hey, Malcolm.” Ollie said. “Does being on a life support machine hurt?” 

“No, but it’s not the most comfortable experience either.” Malcolm said. “Is that it now? No more questions?” 

“Actually,” Robyn raised her hand up slightly. “I have one.” 

Malcolm sighed and waved his hand, indicating her to go ahead. 

“Are you going to tell the world you have cancer?” She asked. “I mean, people will probably ask questions and that’ll probably lead to your medical records being leaked-it’s happened before, after all. And you’ll be outed as having cancer and there’ll be all these articles saying that you’re unfit for work because... well, because you’re sick and you’re hiding it, so how can we believe when you say something about the government that’s true when you’re hiding that you have cancer.” 

* * *

“Welcome back, Malcolm.” Tom said. 

Malcolm was sat in Tom’s office facing Tom. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. 

“We got by without you-“

“No you didn’t.” Malcolm said. “You fucking struggled.” 

“Jamie was a more than adequate replacement-“

“The Tories fucking eviscerated us because Jamie broke down crying in your office.” 

“You couldn’t have done better, Malcolm.” Tom said. “You had cancer.” 

“Have.” Malcolm corrected. “I _have_ cancer.”

“You-what are you doing _here_?” Tom asked incredulously. 

“I have to be here.” Malcolm said. “I’m going stir crazy at home. I love Keir. I love Elspeth. But Jesus Christ it’s awful. I need to get out. And you need help too.” 

“You are aware people will talk about you, aren’t you?” Tom asked. 

“People are _already_ talking.” Malcolm said. “And now the entire government knows I’ve got cancer.” 

“Yes. That might be a problem.” Tom said. 

Malcolm looked at Tom before quickly glancing down at Tom’s desk. 

“Malcolm, I want you to say that you have cancer.” Tom said. 

“Okay.” Malcolm said. “I have cancer. Happy?” 

“To the _media_, Malcolm.” Tom said. 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“No.” Malcolm said. “Absolutely not.” 

“Why?” Tom asked. “If this is a pride thing-“

“It’s not a pride thing.” Malcolm said. “I just don’t want-look, the whole world will know my business. The Tories and the Lib Dems will know I’m sick.” 

“They already know.” Tom said. “You clearly aren’t aware of TuckerWatch.” 

“TuckerWatch? The fuck is TuckerWatch?” Malcolm asked. 

“Jon Snow on Channel 4 News. He’s got a recurring segment dedicated to rumours about you. Mostly debunking them. Like you’ve been abducted by aliens or whatever-“

“I haven’t been!” Malcolm complained. “Just because I had a coma dream about aliens-“

“You were in a coma? Oh yes, when you overdosed on heroin.”

“That was ten years ago-no. I’m talking about last Christmas.” Malcolm said. 

“Jesus, Malcolm.” Tom said. “I should just replace you now.” 

“You tried that. Twice. And I’m still in your office so what do you think will happen?” Malcolm said. 

“You weren’t deathly sick then.” Tom pointed out. 

“And I’m not deathly sick now!” Malcolm raised his voice. “For fuck’s sake, Tom! It’s cancer not fucking Motor Neuron Disease!”

“You could die.” 

“But I’m in remission. That’s why I’m here.” 

“You could catch something from someone.” Tom said. “In your weakened state it could, at worst kill you. Put you back on a life support machine. Back in hospital to recover is the best case scenario here. Then TuckerWatch will start over again. People are asking questions, Malcolm. And you _are_ sick.”

Malcolm sighed. “A civil servant told me earlier that she didn’t think if I came clean about my illness, that people wouldn’t believe what I say.” 

“She’s right.” Tom said.

“Fuck _that_.” Malcolm said. “I don’t want all this fucking...” he waved his hand as he tried to remember the word.

“Er... press?” Tom suggested. “The comments? Speculation?” 

“Speculation, right.” Malcolm nodded. “I don’t want that. 

“So allow yourself to be sick, Malcolm. Tell the world.” Tom said.

“I don’t want to.” Malcolm said quietly. “The press is vicious, Tom. You know that. If I tell them I have cancer, they will go after it. They will pounce on me like a lion on a gazelle and go for the... the jugular. No matter how I try and spin anything after that, they will bring up the cancer and fucking... they will already have killed me. So no.” 

“I see your point.” Tom said. 

“They’ll accuse me of faking it. My wife’s medical records, remember? They were released by that _stupid_ fucking Rupert Murdoch paper.” Malcolm spat out. “After the fakery accusations, that’ll happen to _me_. And I don’t want it to.” 

“That’s just the gutter press and gossip rags, Malco-“

“You know the ‘gutter press’ and ‘gossip rags’ break really important stories sometimes, don’t you? So people _do_ fucking pay attention to them.”

Julius opened the door to Tom’s office as he was munching down on a bagel. Tom looked up and Malcolm to turned around. “Knock knock.” He said. “I heard you were around, Malcolm. It’s nice to-“

“_Fuck off_, Baldy.” Malcolm snapped.

“Julius, this isn’t actually a good time.” Tom said. 

“I don’t see why _you’re_ calling _me_ ‘Baldy’, Malcolm. It’s rather hypocritical when you’re completely bald yourself.” Julius said. 

“That’s because of _chemotherapy_, nae shitty genetics.” Malcolm said. 

“Ah, yes.” Julius nodded. “Welcome back, Malc.” 

“Julius, can you please leave?” Tom said. 

“Why? What’s going on?” Julius asked. He took a bite from his bagel.

“This cunt wants me to tell the world about my Leukaemia diagnosis.” Malcolm said, thumbing towards Tom.

“Oh yes.” Julius nodded and swallowed. “Yes, you probably should.” 

Malcolm put his head in his hands. “No. If I do, there’ll be another fucking... I worked hard for my job. I worked hard to keep it. I worked hard to get it back. I’m not giving it up.” 

A knock on the door caused everyone to stop what they were doing and look at it. 

“Come in.” Tom said. 

Sam walked through carrying an official looking envelope. “It’s for Malcolm. He’s had a court summons.”

“What the fuck for?” Malcolm asked. “It’s not like I’ve been out committing crime. I’ve been in the hospital most of the year.”

Sam handed the envelope to Malcolm. 

“Oh that would be the Leveson Inquiry.” Julius said. “I recognise the envelope. I’ve had one myself.” 

“Whoop-de-fuckin-do.” Malcolm opened the envelope carefully to avoid a paper cut. His blood still wasn’t that good and he still often had to have transfusions of blood and platelets so he was cautious about cutting himself. He took the papers from the envelope and sighed. “It’s-“

“Public. I know. And it’ll be televised for transparency, I’m hearing.” Julius said.

“Fuck.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Fuck me. What if I’m in hospital that day?”

“All the more reason for you to come out and admit you have cancer.” Tom said. 

“Now you can’t say that your press team will try and replace you or that the people will hate you.” Julius said as he finished off his bagel. He swallowed before continuing. “You never know, Malcolm. They may be sympathetic. Like Tom and myself and Peter Mannion of the Opposition.”

“I agree with the Prime Minister and Lord Nicholson.” Sam said. “It’s not wise to hide your Leukaemia forever.” 

“Fuck.” Malcolm cursed again. He sighed and with everyone watching reached into his trouser pocket for his iPhone. 

* * *

The next morning, Malcolm went through the same routine again with his sister, took a car to work, caught the lift up to his floor and walked into his office leaning on a pair of crutches, this time early enough to catch Jamie before he headed off for the morning briefing. 

“Malc.” Jamie said. “I hear you’re gonna talk about your cancer.” 

“Yeah. Why not.” Malcolm said. “Actually, I was pressured to by Tom and Julius. Fucking idiots.”

“Well, maybe they’re right.” Jamie said. 

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asked. 

In response, Jamie patted Malcolm’s completely bald head and tapped at the feeding tube on his cheek before then pointing at his baggy suit and his crutches. 

“Okay.” Malcolm nodded. “I see your point.”

“Good luck, Malc.” Jamie said, patting Malcolm on the shoulder. “Focus on the press. I’ll handle the shitty ministers, yeah.” 

Malcolm nodded. “Yeah.” 

Jamie walked off. 

So did Malcolm. 

* * *

Malcolm sat down in the chair opposite Angela Heaney. He didn’t want to be doing this because it meant that there would be some kind of coup to get rid of him because he was in the news. He’d already survived one coup. Another would be too much. After all, the spin doctor shouldn’t be the news, especially for something like _having cancer_. 

But on the other hand, it was better to do it. He’d been in and out of the news for weeks. He was horribly thin but his face was swollen and puffy from all the steroids. He was completely bald and very very pale. He was reliant on a walking stick, crutches or a wheelchair. He had a feeding tube in a very prominent place coming out of his nose and taped to his face. There were questions that needed addressing. 

“Are you okay, Malcolm?” Angela asked. 

It had been a good sign when she hadn’t reacted as everyone else had done, in shock, when he’d shuffled into the government offices on a pair of crutches looking like death warmed over. Although she was a journalist and would twist his words-because that’s what journalists tended to do-it gave him the confidence to say what he said next.

“Not really, no.“ Malcolm said. 

“So you’re here for a reason, aren’t you?” Angela asked. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm said. “You’ve probably noticed my absence from politics. My appearance. My, uh, medical aids.” He looked down at his crutches, resting against the desk. 

“I think I know already.” Angela said. “You’re dying, aren’t you?” 

“_No_. Not dying.” Malcolm said. “Hopefully. But I suppose it all started back in November, I was very sick but I didn’t know it. I thought I was feeling tired. Run down. It _was_ November, after all. It’s flu season. But I was bleeding excessively and bruising easily. I was having fainting spells. Some friends encouraged me to see my GP and two days later, I-I had a complete shock diagnosis of...” Malcolm stopped and swallowed hard. “I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.”

“You’ve got cancer.” Angela said. “You’ve got cancer... _right now_.” 

“I’ve got cancer right now.” Malcolm nodded in confirmation. “And honestly, the entire time has been fucking hell. The day after I was diagnosed, I had an operation to install a central line in my chest. The day after that, I started chemotherapy. A week later, I had this put in.” He touched his feeding tube. “A month later, I was put in an induced coma because I developed sepsis. I was out of it for almost two weeks and woke up just before Christmas. I was only moved out of the intensive care unit at the New Year.”

“Is that what that scar is from on your head?” Angela asked. 

Malcolm frowned as best as he could with no eyebrows and touched along the right side of his head. “No. That’s... from an old accident.” He said, thinking that that was what Angela was referring to. “I fell as a kid and cut my head.” He didn’t tell her he was pushed by his childhood bully. He always omitted that part when telling the story. “Which was an entirely different time to when I fell as a kid and ended up in a body cast.” 

Angela frowned. “You’ve been through it, haven’t you.”

”I’ve seen hardships, yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “But I’m not a kid any more-“

”I meant with your... losing your family, your problems with addiction and now this. You have cancer. Are you okay to do your job?” Angela asked. “I mean, you’ve been gone for like seven or eight months now.” 

“I’m fine. Well, no not ‘fine’, but right now, I’m in remission. And I’ve also gone back to work part time.” 

“Oh, congratulations, Malcolm.” Angela said. “That’s good, right?” 

“I mean, I’m still having chemo.” Malcolm said. “It’s honestly not as fun as previously advertised.” 

“Shouldn’t you be in hospital then?” Angela asked. 

“I take different kinds of chemo.” Malcolm said. “I take tablets, mainly. But every once in a while, I go down to the hospital as an outpatient, where they hook me up to a drip and I just watch the poison slowly falling into my veins. And I have injections too. But at least the nosebleeds have stopped.” 

“Right. That sounds terrible.” Angela said. Though was her job to report on the failings of the government, she could never pick on a man with cancer. So everything she was going to write, she mentally scrapped and began rewriting her report again in her head. She put her hand on Malcolm’s on the table. “I’m really sorry.” 

* * *

Jamie looked at the newspaper headline from the Daily Mail.   
  
**Government Spin Doctor Malcolm Tucker Has Cancer**.

He looked through the article, which mainly said how brave Malcolm was, which didn’t sit right with him, and put the paper down. With Malcolm back in work, Jamie had more free time. And he was looking forward to taking his kids out and having fun with them. However, with Linda away, a family trip would have to wait. 

“You sure you’re not coming?” Jamie asked his oldest son, Euan. 

“I’m sure.” Euan said. “I’d rather play my PlayStation than go down to Legoland.” 

“If you’re sure.” Jamie said. 

“Why aren’t you taking Kirsty and Sophie?” Euan asked. 

“Because your Mam’s busy on a work retreat for the next few days, so Kirsty and Sophie won’t be at home.” Jamie explained. “Kirsty’s staying with a friend and Sophie’s staying with your grandparents.”

“Why are you taking Josh and Lewis to Legoland then?” 

“Because they asked to go.” Jamie said. “Look, Euan, you’re a big boy now, yeah?” 

“Yes.” Euan said. “I’m going to Luke’s flat and we’re going to play PlayStation.” 

“Not Grand Theft Auto.” Jamie said. “You _know_ how I feel about that game.”

“No, Da, not Grand Theft Auto.” 

“And nothing with flashing lights. I know you’re not photosensitive, but you don’t want a seizure.”

“Fine.” Euan groaned as if to say ‘shut up, Da, you’re ruining my life’. 

“Alright.” Jamie nodded. “Good. Be careful and I’ll pick you up from Luke’s tonight.” 

“Josh! Lewis! Are ye ready?!” Jamie shouted upstairs to his youngest sons. 

“I’m ready.” Josh came bounding down the stairs with Lewis following him. 

Jamie looked at his sons. They were all growing up so fast. Euan was thirteen. Josh was ten and Lewis was eight. And seeing them all together, it was wholly obvious that neither Euan, Josh or Lewis were related to Jamie or Linda. And that Lewis wasn’t related to Euan or Josh. 

Jamie and Linda had had to go through a lot to get their family. After trouble conceiving and then entirely too many miscarriages, they decided to adopt. Euan came first in 1998 when he was a year old. Then came Euan’s half brother, Josh. After another adoption application, they were gifted with the then-two year old Lewis. After that, came Euan and Josh’s half sister, Kirsty who was now five. Completing the family was three year old Sophie, Lewis’s full sister. 

Jamie put his arm around his youngest son. “Come on then. Let’s go-but don’t run to the car-I don’t want to end up in A&E rather than Legoland!” 

Josh ran do the front door and opened it as Jamie grabbed his car keys from the bowl by the door. 

* * *

Malcolm sat in his office, looking at the copy of the Daily Mail in front of him. He’d made the front page and the article was rather sympathetic towards him. However, he’d been getting calls left, right and centre from Fleet Street editors wanting to talk to him about his illness and it was top news on the BBC. He groaned and put the TV off. 

“Fuck.” He exclaimed. He grabbed his crutches and walked out of his office. 

“Are you okay, Malcolm?” Sam asked. 

“Fine.” Malcolm said. “Actually I’m fucking angry so I’m going to bollock some ministers. Then I’m going home. Got a hospital appointment tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Okay.” Sam said. 

Malcolm walked out of the offices and out of Number 10 through one of the back entrances. He didn’t want to risk being ambushed by press outside the door. And if he was a journalist, which he had been, he’d be down there too. 

Once he was out on Whitehall, a familiar voice called to him. 

“Oi, Malc!” 

Malcolm turned around. “Cal?” 

“You’re walking around Whitehall in a suit, I see.”

“I’m working.” Malcolm said. “Which means, officially, I hate you.” 

“Well I’m working too, so I fucking hate you too, you cunt.” 

“Your Party’s shit.” 

“Your Party’s worse.” 

“You hate the fucking poor and fucking... the homeless.”

“You hate rich people and the fucking corporations who bring fucking jobs to people so they won’t be homeless.”

“Your Party sold off fucking social housing.” 

“Your Party’s still doing it.”

“Your Party is full of war mongers.”

“Your Party took the country to war in Iraq.” 

“Fuck you.” Malcolm said.

“Fuck you too.” Cal said. “So how are you finding work again?” 

“Hard.” Malcolm admitted. “But this work is always fucking hard.” 

“You’re telling me.” Cal said. “And I’m not the one all over the fucking news.” 

“Do you want to be?” Malcolm offered. “I can beat the living shit out of you with my crutches if you want.” 

“That’d put you in the headlines again you fucking melt.” 

Malcolm raised one of his crutches and hit Cal on his thigh with it. 

“You fucker.” Cal snapped. “After all I did for you, you cunt.” 

“I’d do the same if it were you. Though the chances of you developing what I’ve got are fucking low because Leukaemia is pretty fucking rare.” Malcolm said. “I’m still tired. And weak. And I can’t eat shit properly. And my whole body hurts like I’ve just been hit by a fucking lorry. If you got cancer...” 

“Yeah. I know.” Cal’s voice lowered. “It can’t be fun.” 

“Just keep your lot out of fucking trouble.” Malcolm said. 

“Only if you keep your lot in line.” Cal said. 

“I’m fucking trying, man.” Malcolm said. 

“Not fucking hard enough.” Cal said. “Alright. That’s enough talking out on Whitehall. We’re fucking enemies. We shouldn’t be seen together.” 

“Alright. Away wi ye.” Malcolm said. 

“You know I’m going in this direction too?” Cal asked. 

“Pass me then.” Malcolm said. “I’m slow. My bones and veins are full o’ cancer.” 

Cal hurried past Malcolm down the street. 

Malcolm carried on, albeit much slower, down Whitehall. 

* * *

As Jamie was driving down the country roads, Josh and Lewis started fighting over the music.

“I don’t like this one.” Josh complained. “Turn it over.” 

“No. I like it.” Lewis said. 

“I’m not tuning it to another radio station.” Jamie said. “Behave, the both of you.” 

“This music’s stupid.” Josh folded his arms in a sulk. 

Lewis started singing along to the song. 

Josh scoffed and rolled his eyes. He reached forward from the backseat to change the radio station. 

“Hey!” Jamie said. “Josh, stop that.” He glanced down at Josh. “It’s dangerous. Don’t do that.” 

“Sorry.” Josh didn’t sound entirely sorry. 

“Sit back in your seat. Don’t fight. Don’t do anything that might kill us all.” Jamie said. 

Lewis leaned over to Josh. “Come on. It’s fun.” 

“It’s not fun. I don’t like this song.” 

Lewis tapped Josh on the shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me!” Josh shouted and slapped Lewis. “You’re not even my real brother!” 

Lewis punched Josh in return. 

“Stop it!” Jamie looked in the rear view mirror. “No fighting! I swear, I will turn this car-“

Another car slammed into the side of Jamie’s, knocking it off the road. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. I’ve been campaigning for my candidate in the general election. Unfortunately she lost and my constituency fell to a London elitist Tory who doesn’t care about my culture or language (I’m Welsh). But I’m not giving up the fight. I’m going to Defy Tory Rule. I’m going to bend over, pick up any weapon I can and twat the fuckery out of the Tories. And I hope everyone else who is unhappy with the result will do the same. After all, most of the electorate voted for left wing candidates.  
Next chapter though, we’ll be checking in on Phil and Emma and something isn’t going to go well for the Labour Party. Or rather, multiple somethings.


	9. If Only I Could Wake You Up

Josh opened his eyes and looked around. The car had violently crashed into a tree, but the airbags hadn’t deployed.

“Josh?” Lewis asked. 

“Yeah?” Josh said. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I think so. Are you?” 

“I think so too.” Lewis said. He reached forward and tapped Jamie on the shoulder. “Da?” 

No response. 

“Da?” Josh asked. He unbuckled his seatbelt and shook Jamie’s shoulders. “Da? Please wake up. I’m sorry Lewis and I were fighting. I’m sorry, Da. It’s all my fault. Please wake up.” 

Jamie stayed sat in his seat, his body slumped forwards. He didn’t say a word. 

“I think Da’s dead.” Josh said. 

“Da!” Lewis tried to stand up, but his seatbelt stopped him. “_Da_!” He begged. 

“We have to get out of here.” Josh said. He looked for an exit and found one; the rear passenger window. He manually rolled the window down and climbed (fell) out, head first. 

Lewis unbuckled his seatbelt and crawled along the backseat. 

Josh stood up. “Lewis, you have to climb out.” 

“I-I can’t.” Lewis said, looking out of the window. 

“You have to.” Josh said. “I’ll help you.” 

Lewis nodded uncertainly and tried to pull himself up. It was then he became acutely aware of a pain in his arm and cried out. 

“Lewis!” Josh said. 

“I think I hurt my arm.” Lewis said.

“Use your good arm.” Josh said. “I’ll help you.” He reached up and held up Lewis’s bad side, pulling him from the car. He helped Lewis down as well. 

“What now?” Lewis asked. 

Josh walked away from the car to scope the scene. Cars had stopped to look at what had happened and the driver and the passenger of the other car had got out to observe the damage. 

“Are you boys alright?” The driver asked. 

“Yeah.” Josh said. “My brother hurt his arm though.” 

“And I think Da’s dead.” Lewis wiped his nose with his sleeve. 

The driver put his hands on Josh and Lewis’s shoulders. 

The passenger, a woman who had a phone to her ear, walked over to the driver’s side to see the windscreen smashed in and Jamie unconscious and slumped over the steering wheel with his neck at an odd angle.

“Yeah, there’s another person here. A man. I’d say late forties. Yeah, he’s unconscious and bleeding. It doesn’t look like the airbags have gone off.” 

“What are your names?” The driver asked. 

“I’m Joshua. Josh. He’s Lewis.” Josh said. “Why did you hit us?” He asked. 

“Well, I didn’t see you coming.” The driver said. “It was all a complete accident.

“Dad, they’re sending paramedics, the fire brigade and some cops.” The woman said. 

“Did you let them know about the children?” The driver asked. 

“Children?” The woman asked. She looked to see Josh and Lewis standing with her father. “Crap-there’s two small children here too. Yeah, fully conscious and ambulatory. They’re standing right in front of me-I think they escaped the car.” She addressed Josh and Lewis. “How old are you?” 

“I’m ten. Lewis is eight.” Josh said. 

“One’s ten and one’s eight.” The woman said. “Alright, thank you.” 

“What’s going on?” Lewis asked. “What’s going to happen to Da?” 

Neither the driver nor the woman had the answer to that one. 

* * *

“Mrs MacDonald, I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect this to happen to James.” Julius said as he approached Linda in the waiting room later on in the day. He was accompanied by Sam and a few other Number 10 staffers. “Where is he now?” 

“He’s having emergency surgery.” Linda said. “It’s bad. It’s bad. It’s so bad.” 

“It can’t be _that_ bad.” Sam said. 

“He’s got a broken neck.” Linda said. “And a fractured skull. Ribs, pelvis, legs, arm, nose, cheekbone, jaw-all broken. And his internal organs... crushed. Lacerated. Bruised.” 

“That... that’s bad.” Sam conceded. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs MacDonald?” Julius asked. 

“My son, Lewis, he’s in the A&E with a broken arm. Josh is with him. I need to be with them.” Linda said. 

“I’ll wait for Jamie.” Sam said. “I’ve seen Malcolm in a coma _twice_. I can handle it.” 

“Where is Malcolm?” Julius asked, looking around. “I would have expected him to be here.” 

“He’s got cancer.” Linda said. “I don’t want to worry him.” 

“He’s very much aware of what goes on around him.” Sam said. “He’s going to notice that Jamie isn’t around.” 

“Well he’s quite astute. He’ll be fine.” Linda said. 

“But Jamie is Malcolm’s best friend.” Sam pointed out.

“I’m trying to hold off until I know for sure.” Linda said. “Until I know how Jamie is. If he’s going to...” She tried to push back her tears.

Sam put her hand on Linda’s shoulder. “I understand.” She said. “Malcolm’s gone home for the day. He only works until two in he afternoon now. And Jamie has most of his responsibilities. I really hope the two of them will be okay.” 

“The press team are more than able to collectively handle any situation that may arise.” Julius said. This was accompanied by mutters and head-nodding by Julius’ staffers. “I am going back to work because I have very important House of Lords things I have to be getting on with, but please do keep me updated with James’ progress.”

“Yeah, I’m going to stay here.” Sam said. 

“Very well.” Julius said. 

“Thank you.” Linda said through her tears. “And thank you for coming, Lord Nicholson.” 

“It’s not a problem.” Julius said. “Now is there a cafeteria or a vending machine nearby? I’m feeling quite peckish.” 

* * *

The next morning, Moira walked into Malcolm’s bedroom. 

“Rise and shine.” She said.

“Leave me alone.” Malcolm groaned. 

“I can’t leave you alone. You have treatment later.” Moira said. 

“I don’t want it.” Malcolm said. “And I don’t want that feeding tube gunk either.” 

“So you want to starve to death.” Moira asked. 

“Let the cancer take me over.” Malcolm complained. 

“No. You’re in remission.” Moira said.

“Why do I still need chemo then?” Malcolm asked.

“Because that’s how your cancer works.” Moira said. “Do you want to try puréed food? Do you feel ready?” 

Malcolm thought for a few seconds and then shook his head. 

“Alright.” Moira said. “Get up. It’s feeding time. And we can’t forget about your medication.”

Malcolm groaned as he slid out of bed and followed Moira down to the kitchen. He was a fifty-one year old man. He shouldn’t have been complaining like this. But sometimes the treatments became too much for even him. This was a bad day.

In the kitchen, Moira held up a can of tube feed formula and a syringe. Another was on the counter top by the sink. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Malcolm sighed and sat down at the table. “Why’d ye have to bother me today?” He asked.

“Because you need food.” Moira said. “And you’re getting stronger now. You don’t want to waste that.”

“Just let me go to my appointment alone.” Malcolm said. “With no food. No water. No meds. No nothing. I’m just not in the fucking mood.” 

“Family don’t let family go to cancer appointments alone.” Moira said. “I’m just going to wake the kids. I’ll be right back.” 

As she left the kitchen, the phone started to ring. She rushed to answer it. 

“Hello?” She said as she took the cordless phone up the stairs. “Linda, hi.” Her eyes opened wide. “Fuck-you’re fucking joking now right? Jesus fucking Christ.” She hissed in a low voice so Malcolm wouldn’t overhear. “Is he alright? Oh. _Oh my god_. I’m just helping Malcolm with his feeding tube. I’ll get Dan to bring him to the hospital, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

Moira hung up the phone and put it down on the floor. She knocked on Ellie’s bedroom door and opened it. “Come on, time for school.” 

She did the same with Keir’s bedroom and descended the stairs. She walked over to the sink and washed her hands and then the syringes silently, wondering how she was going to tell Malcolm that his best friend had been injured in a car accident. She decided that she wouldn’t, at least for now. 

“Alright, are you ready?” She asked, drying her hands with a towel.

“Who was on the phone?” Malcolm asked. 

“My boss.” Moira said. She took a bottle of hand gel and pumped some out, rubbing her hands with it. “My compassionate leave is ending, so I can’t come with you today. Dan’s going to have to take you to your appointment.” 

“Why can’t I go alone?” Malcolm asked. 

“Because I know that you won’t go.” Moira said. She picked up the first syringe and carefully drew the warm water she’d prepared earlier into it. “I know that you want to be well and kick cancer’s arse, but... but you’re tired, exhausted, you’ve had enough.” She picked up the end of Malcolm’s feeding tube and opened the cap. “You’ve been through so many rounds of intensive chemo. You’re still having it. You still can’t eat because of it.” 

“I know.” Malcolm said. “And this fucking thing,” he referred to the feeding tube, “is so uncomfortable. I hate it. I mean I know it’s keeping me alive. I just fucking hate it.” 

Malcolm held the end of the feeding tube up as Moira slowly and gently flushed it with the warm water. 

“You agreed to it. _Five times_ you’ve agreed to it.” Moira said. 

“Just because I agreed to it five times doesn’t mean I like it.” Malcolm said. 

Moira took the syringe away and put it in the water. “I suppose you’re right.” She agreed. “Alright. Let gravity do its job and I’ll measure out your feed.” 

“Yay.” Malcolm rolled his eyes sarcastically. 

“I’d do this any day than see you dead, Malc.” Moira said. “I’d like to think that you’d do the same for me.”

“I s’pose I would.” Malcolm agreed. “You’re my little sister. And.. and I love you.” 

“”I love you too.” Moira said. 

“Don’t _ever_ make me say that again.” Malcolm said. 

Moira chuckled. She put the second syringe into the tube feed formula, careful not to draw up any air. “Then again, if I needed a feeding tube, I’d probably be able to handle it by myself.” 

“I don’t doubt that.” Malcolm said. “You’re doing fine with this one.” 

“Well, that’s because I was taught how to.” Moira said. “And don’t forget, I’m also dosing your cancer meds.” 

“Well technically they’re all dosed up already.” Malcolm pointed out.

“You know what I mean.” Moira gently held the end of the feeding tube and put the syringe inside the tube for the feed to drip down. “Alright, feeding time.” 

“Yum.” Malcolm said sarcastically. “I can taste it already.”

“Do you still wonder what it tastes like?” Moira asked. 

“Dog shit, probably.” Malcolm said. “It’s just a lot of shite all blended together into a paste-“

“It’s not a paste-“

“So whatever it’s made of is going to taste bad.” 

“If you wash your hands carefully enough, the can’s open and you can taste it.” Moira said. 

“And have to suck on a lollipop to get the taste out of my mouth?” Malcolm pulled a face. “No fuckin’ way.” 

“Are you eating lollipops?” Moira asked. 

“No.” Malcolm lied.

“You know you shouldn’t be doing that.” Moira said. “If you’re going to try and eat, it should be something with nutritional value, not empty calories.”

“Don’t be a fucking hypocrite, Moira. If you had a disgusting taste in your mouth all day, you’d want to try and change it too.” Malcolm said. 

“Yes, I suppose I would.” Moira said. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re struggling and that there are things that bring you pleasure. I shouldn’t be having a go at you for enjoying those things. I just don’t want to have another dead brother. You’re not just my brother, Malc, you’re my best friend. Ellie worships you. Keir loves you. Dan... puts up with you.”

“Thank you, Dan.” Malcolm muttered sarcastically.” 

“Malcolm, _please_.” Moira said. “No matter what happens today, remember that we need you.” 

Malcolm sighed and nodded slightly, taking care not to disturb the feeding tube. “If there’s one benefit to having a feeding tube, it’s that I can talk and eat at the same time.” 

“There is always a bright side.” Moira said. 

“No there isn’t.” Malcolm said under his breath.

* * *

Moira hurried into St George’s Hospital, where she was greeted by Jamie’s wife, Linda. 

“Thank you for coming.” Linda said. 

“What happened?” Moira asked. 

“I was on a work retreat.” Linda said. “We had to give all our phones in. Then the next thing I know, my workplace coordinator thrust my phone into my hand and told me the hospital was calling. Then the hospital told me that Jamie had been in a car accident and that I needed to be here urgently.” 

“Where is he?” Moira asked. 

“They’ve got him in intensive care.” Linda said. “And Lewis, he’s got a broken arm, but he’s okay. Josh is bruised and banged up but he’s okay too.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Moira asked. 

“I’m... not sure.” Linda admitted. “Jamie, he’s just-oh god it’s bad. It’s so bad. I’ve called Jamie’s mam and dad, they’re on their way down. And I’ve called my brothers and sister, so they know. Where’s Malcolm?” 

“He’s gone for his appointment at St Thomas’s.” Moira said. “I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know.” 

“What’s he having?” Linda asked. 

“Blood tests and a checkup.” Moira said. “They need to check his blood cells and platelets all the time. Just in case the cancer relapses or he gets anaemic or his platelets fall too low.” 

“I’d hate that.” Linda said. “I’m scared of needles.” 

Moira sighed. “I think Malc’s just used to it now.” 

“That must be awful.” Linda said. “They poked Jamie with all kinds of needles yesterday and they cut him open and drilled holes in him and...” She stopped to compose herself. “It’s not fair. On either of them.” 

“It’ll be okay.” Moira said.

“I’m not so sure it will.” Linda said. 

* * *

Later that day, Malcolm was lying in his bed when Moira walked into his bedroom. 

“Wha’s hap’n’d?” Malcolm asked groggily. He was tired from having blood tests and scans. He hated having to have these appointments because they always tired him out. 

“Er... I don’t want you to panic but, uh, it’s Jamie.” Moira said. 

“Jamie.” Malcolm jolted to full consciousness. “Is he okay?”

“He’s had a little accident.” Moira said. “And he’s,” she swallowed, trying to delay telling him, “he’s in the hospital. St George’s Hospital, to be exact.” 

“What?” Malcolm opened his eyes as wide as his exhaustion would let him. 

“He was in a car crash yesterday. He was the driver.” Moira explained. “Jamie’s injuries are, well they’re bad, Malcolm. I’ve been to see him and he’s... not in a good way. His head injuries are bad. Worse than you can imagine.” 

“I have to see him.” Malcolm said, trying to sit himself upright. 

“You can’t.” Moira said. “You’re wiped out, Malc. You’ve just had blood tests-.” 

“Jamie is my best friend.” Malcolm said. “Leukaemia be damned, I’m going to see him.” 

“You can’t-Malcolm.” Moira pleaded. She took his hand in hers. “Please. You’re tired. Your immune system’s fucked. Don’t do this.” 

“You have to let me go to him, Moira.” Malcolm said. “If he dies... I need to say g’bye. And if I didn’t do that, I couldn’t forgive myself. He’s my best friend.”

“I know he is.” Moira said. “He’s been with you through Elaine’s death and he stood by you through your drug and alcohol issues. I know you fell out over the Prime Minister, but overall you’ve got the kind of relationship most men envy.”

Malcolm nodded. 

“But I can’t let you see him.” Moira said. 

“But-“

“But _nothing_, Malc.” Moira said. “You don’t have an immune system anymore. You can’t walk without a walking stick and most of the time you use a wheelchair because you’re tired. And as I have pointed out, you’ve just come from the hospital. I don’t think you should go.” 

“I’m going.” Malcolm got out of bed. “Get me jeans and a t-shirt. And a hoodie.” 

“I’m putting my foot down.” Moira said. 

“Well, I’m fifty one.” Malcolm said. “I’m not being bossed around by my forty seven year old little sister. You’ve been bossing me around ever since the day you were born!” 

Moira’s eyes narrowed. “Only because you were in a fucking body cast the day I was born!” 

“Well it’s a fucking good thing I don’t have that broken leg anymore, isn’t it?!” Malcolm snapped. “I have two fucking functioning legs here and I can use them to walk out the fucking front door-“

“Fucking do it then, prick!” Moira shouted. 

“Why the fuck should I? This is _my_ fucking house!” Malcolm shouted. “I pay the fucking mortgage and all the fucking bills here-you and that idiotic fuck you call a ‘husband’ are practically just fucking _squatters_!” 

Moira pursed her lips together tightly. “You want us out. That’s what you’re saying.” 

“Hall-fuckin’-lujah she finally gets it!” Malcolm said. “Get the fuck out of my house.” 

“I’m not leaving.” Moira said. “What about the kids?” 

“It’s July, not the dead of fucking winter, you’ll be fine.” 

“You’re really willing to throw your own fucking sister and her nine year old and her five year old out on the street.” Moira said. “This isn’t you.”

“Bullshit!” Malcolm shouted. “You don’t know what ‘me’ is! Malcolm Tucker died the second he took this job from Steve fuckin’ Fleming. You cannot know Malcolm Tucker, Malcolm Tucker does not exist anymore! This body is a-a fucking husk! A host for the fucking British government and fucking... _cancer_! I don’t know what the fuck I even am anymore! A fucking parasite a-a fucking... tapeworm! And every now and then this fucking body takes itself down to the fucking cemetery to lay down flowers at a fucking grave reading; ‘Here Lies Malcolm Alasdair Tucker’s Fucking Miserable Life-His Hopes And Dreams And Wants And Needs And Health and Happiness And His Shot At Being A Fucking... Normal Person!” 

He stopped, all the shouting was making him dizzy. And then he dropped down to the floor onto his knees. He managed to catch himself before he fell down any further. 

“Malcolm!” Moira knelt down to him. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” Malcolm said. He pushed himself from his hands and knees to sitting on his floor. 

Moira sat down next to him. “I’ll take you to see Jamie, if that’s what you want.” 

“I don’t know what I want.” Malcolm said. His throat was hurting from all the shouting. He was in pain all over. The emotional pain was what tipped him over the edge. 

“I know that I don’t want you to compare yourself to a tapeworm again.” Moira said. “Come on. Get dressed. I’ll take you to St George’s.” She stood up from the floor.

“If you don’t mind... I’d rather rest a little first.” Malcolm said. 

Moira nodded. “Of course. Take as long as you need. That was one hell of a rant, Malc.” 

Malcolm nodded. “Yep.” 

* * *

About an hour later, after a nap, Moira and Malcolm packed up in her car and headed off to St George’s Hospital. Moira took Malcolm most of the way in a wheelchair and then waited in the family room while Malcolm went to the ICU to see Jamie alone.

When he got there, however, he wasn’t expecting to see Jamie looking so bad.

Jamie’s right arm was covered in thick bandaging along with his chest and neck. There were metal frames sticking out of his left leg, his pelvis and his head. His face had clearly been stitched up in several places. And just like Malcolm, he had tubes sticking in and out of his body. To put it bluntly, he looked _bad_. 

“Malcolm.” Linda, greeted. She didn’t expect Malcolm to still look as bad as he did. Especially since he’d gone back to work. But here he was looking as he did before and leaning on a walking stick. “Oh you look like death warmed over, you poor dear.” 

“Jamie.” Malcolm’s voice cracked, so he cleared his throat. “Jamie’s worse.” 

“Jamie isn’t dying of cancer.” 

“Nor am I.” Malcolm said. “What’s this then?” He gestured to Jamie. “What’s happened to him?” 

“Jamie was in a car wreck. Apparently he was t-boned and that caused the car to flip and crash into a tree. Jamie was trapped in the car, but the kids got out.” Linda explained.

“The kids?” Malcolm asked. “Are they okay?” He couldn’t bear the thought of Jamie losing one of his beloved children. He’d lost his daughter and he still felt that pain every day. 

“The kids _are_ okay.” Linda said. “Well, Lewis has a broken wrist and Josh is a little shaken up and bruised but otherwise fine. Euan, Kirsty and Sophie weren’t in the car.” 

Malcolm nodded. “What about Jamie?” 

Linda looked at her husband. “Jamie’s... he’s got a broken bones all over. Head injuries. And he’s had more than a hundred stitches in his face.“ 

“Will he wake up?” Malcolm asked. 

“We don’t know.” Linda said. 

“Jesus.” Malcolm sat down next to Jamie, leaning his walking stick against the chair. “He’s broken his neck too.” 

Linda nodded. “Yeah. And his back. His ribs. His skull. Other bones. And he has internal injuries that have been fixed too.”

“He’ll be okay.” Malcolm said, not sure he was believing his own words. 

“You don’t have to be here, Malc.” Linda said. “I know you’ve had blood tests today.”

“Jamie was there for me. Now I need to be there for him.” Malcolm said. 

* * *

Malcolm went to see Jamie for as long and as often as his illness and his work let him. Every time he saw Jamie some other medical procedure had been done to him. By now, he’d had a craniectomy to remove parts of his skull and ease the swelling on his brain, surgeries to fix his lacerated internal organs, internal and external fixation and traction to align his broken bones, rods to stabilise his spine, among other, smaller operations. 

There was never any change in his condition. His brain was swollen. His spinal cord had been severed at the neck. But still, Malcolm hoped for change. He just wanted his friend back.

“Linda.” Malcolm said. “Go home. Get some sleep.” 

“I went home last night.” Linda said. “I didn’t sleep though. I couldn’t. I felt guilty being able to sleep by choice while Jamie...” 

“I don’t sleep by choice either, Linda.” Malcolm said. “It’s the cancer.” 

“I know you have it hard, Malcolm.” Linda said. “Jamie has it hard. I’m just being selfish.” 

“Taking time for yourself is never selfish.” Malcolm said. “In case you don’t remember, I was put in a coma before Christmas. Moira didn’t look after herself. She ended up in hospital herself.” 

“Jamie was at your side” Linda said. “I waited in the family room, praying for you.” 

Malcolm didn’t believe in the power of prayer, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t touched by that; it was proof that someone else, besides his family cared about him.

“I didn’t think I’d be in that same spot months later.” He said. “How are your kids doing?” 

“Euan’s... Euan’s been here to see Jamie. Since then, he doesn’t like any conversation that mentions his da. He gets aggressive and throws something at the wall or shouts or slams doors and it frighten the other weans.” Linda said. “He’s having a hard time coping, I think. And he’s thirteen now. He’s entering puberty. His hormones are raging and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s epileptic so he’s knows he’s not the same as his peers. His da’s accident makes it worse.” 

“Jesus.” Malcolm shook his head.

“Josh is quiet. He’s always been a boisterous lad, but he’s just gone so quiet. And Lewis-I haven’t heard him speak a word since that day. It must have affected them, they were in the car at the time.”

“Lin, I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, Malcolm.” Linda squeezed Jamie’s fingers. “It’s just one of these horrible things. I’ve been praying to God to help me get through this, to help _Jamie_ get through this. But I don’t feel He’s even listening.” 

* * *

Emma and Phil has both taken their break and were on their way back. Emma was trying not to talk to Phil who was annoying her by talking about The Hobbit, which was due to be adapted into a movie the following year.

“I really don’t care, Phil.” Emma said. 

“But it’s the origin of Bilbo Baggins-“

“I told you, Phil, I don’t care about Bilbo Baggins. Or fucking Frodo. Or whoever.” Emma said. 

“It’s because you’re shagging Ollie again, isn’t it.” Phil said. 

Emma’s face flushed red. “No. I’m not shagging Ollie-“

“You are!” Phil said triumphantly. “You’re shagging Ollie!” 

“Why would I be shagging Ollie?” Emma asked. “I dumped him like a year and a half ago.” 

“I don’t know.” Phil said. “Because you like it?” 

Emma scoffed. “Ollie Reeder is the _worst_ person I’ve ever shagged.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not the one who’s shagged him.” Phil said. 

“Fuck off, Phil!” Emma snapped. “Just because you’re a fucking asexual-“

“I am not asexual!” Phil said. “I just don’t like sex. Especially not sex with _leftists_.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with shagging a leftist-you can get some good policies from-“

“So go and join the fucking Labour Party then!” 

“No!” Emma said, offended. “I’m a Tory!” 

“Act like one then and don’t shag a Labour person.” Phil said. 

“My sex life is _none_ of your business.” 

“It is when you’re shagging in the next room to me.” 

“Fuck off.” Emma pushed Phil away. 

Phil lost his balance and stepped off the pavement, into the path of a car. A car whose driver beeped loudly and angrily. 

“Get on the pavement, you idiot.” Emma snapped. 

“_You_ were the one who pushed me into the road.” Phil argued.

“Shut up. Don’t say anything.” Emma said. 

Phil sighed and rolled his eyes. He took his phone out to check the time and put it back. 

“So you’re not shagging Ollie then?” He asked. 

Emma turned around and glared at him. “Phil!” 

“It’s a yes or no question.” 

“I swear to god, I’m going to pack my shit up and leave that flat. And I’m going to drag Affers with me and leave you on your own.” 

“Fine.” Phil said. “I don’t wanna live with you and Affers anyway. Not if you’re going to be-“

“Fine!” Emma threw her hands up. “I’m shagging Ollie! Are you happy now?!”

“He’s not going to move in again, is he?” 

“Fuck off, Phil.” 

“Alright, whatever.” 

As they passed down South Bank, Emma turned around, not hearing Phil behind her. 

“Oh my god.” She exclaimed.

“Don’t do anything.” Phil said. Someone with a hoodie was threatening him with a knife.

Emma reached down for her phone. “Phil-“

“Give me your wallet.” The person said gruffly. 

“You’re being mugged.” 

“Give me your wallet!” The person said louder and raised the knife to Phil’s neck. 

“Omygod.” Phil muttered.

People were watching and some of them were on their phones.

“Phil! Give him your fucking wallet!” Emma said. 

Phil reached in his pocket and took out his wallet, but hesitated to give it to the mugger. 

“Phil!” Emma said desperately. 

The mugger grabbed the wallet and both the mugger and Phil had a tug o war over it. 

“It’s my wallet!” Phil hissed. 

The mugger said nothing and put his knife into Phil’s stomach, before snatching the wallet, going into Phil’s pocket for his phone, and grabbing Emma’s phone before running off. 

“Jesus!” Emma exclaimed. “Are you okay?”

Phil put his hand to his stomach, which was bleeding. “Am I okay? Emma, I’ve been stabbed!”

He dropped down dramatically to his knees. 

“Phil.” Emma grabbed Phil’s upper arm. “Get up, you idiot.” 

“No. I’ve been stabbed.” Phil said. “I’m dying.” 

“You’re not dying-you’re being melodramatic.” Emma said. But even she’d noticed how pale he’d gone. 

Phil took his hand away from his stab wound and looked at it. Very red. Very bloody. His vision blacked out and he fell backwards on the ground. 

“Phil?” Emma shook his shoulders. “Phil. This isn’t funny.” 

No response. 

“Phil!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas. Or whatever you celebrate.


	10. You’re Not Here

Peter hurried into the emergency department at St Thomas’s Hospital and tried his best to find Emma. He knew Phil had been stabbed in a mugging and passed out, but he didn’t know how bad it was. 

“Peter?” Emma said. She was getting a drink from the water cooler. 

“Oh my god, Emma, how’s Phil?” Peter asked. 

“He was stabbed.” Emma said. “There was blood everywhere. It was horrible. I’ve never been witness to a stabbing before. Now I have to talk to the police.”

“But how’s Phil?” Peter said. 

“You can’t see him.” Emma said. 

“Is he... he’s _not_, is he?” Phil asked.

“No. He’s just talking to the police now.” Emma said. 

“Jesus.” Peter let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“He got lucky-the knife missed all his important organs. It looked worse than it was. And him passing out at the sight of his own blood didn’t help.” Emma said. “That scared _me_ more than anything.” 

“So Phil’s going to live?” Peter asked. 

“Unfortunately.” Emma said. “He’ll be just fine. They expect him to spend the night for observation though.” 

“Of course.” Peter nodded. “Of course.” 

“The media knows about this, don’t they?” Emma said. 

“Uh, no actually. It was Stewart who told me about this.” Peter said. “He also told me about Jamie MacDonald’s turn for the worse.” 

“What’s going on with him, then?” Emma asked. 

“Oh apparently he’s had an aneurysm or a stroke or something.” Peter said. “It’s not looking good. He’ll never work in politics again.” 

“That’s good, right?” Emma asked. 

“Emma.” Peter said. “A man could die.” 

“Yeah, but he’s Labour. So it doesn’t count really.” 

“You’re the one fucking that Ollie Reeder! _He’s_ Labour, is he not?” 

“John Bercow’s wife’s Labour, what do you want me to say?” 

“Now I _know_ you’re in politics because you didn’t answer the fucking question.” 

“You’re palling around with Malcolm Tucker as if he’s your new bezzie mate-“

“I am _not_-“

“You absolutely _are_.” 

“He has cancer-“

“What makes you say that? Because he’s bald?” 

“Because he’s actually come out and admitted ‘hey, I have cancer’.” 

“He’s still Labour.” 

“And you don’t care about _him_ either. He is a _person_, Emma.” Peter sighed. “you’re a good advisor. I know you’re stressed. Take the rest of the day off.” 

Two police officers approached Emma and Peter. 

“Ms Messinger?” One of them asked. “We need to talk to you.” 

“I’ll... see you later, Peter.” Emma said and walked off with the cops. 

Peter blinked as he thought about everything. How he actually, at least somewhat, _cared_ about his staffers. He hadn’t expected that. Now he just needed to find Phil. So he wandered off to do exactly that. 

After asking at reception where Phil was, Peter eventually found his bay and walked in to see Phil sitting up at the side of the bed fully clothed in a bloody suit and not attached to any medical equipment. Emma was right. Phil was fine. 

“Peter.” Phil said in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you here. I though you’d be working.” 

“I _was_ working.” Peter said. “Only I had a phone call to say you’d been stabbed.” 

“Did Emma call you?” 

“As a matter of fact, she did.” 

“Were you worried about me?” 

“No, I came to see if I’d have to replace you.” Peter said. “I can see that I don’t. Tremendously unfortunate, if you ask me.” 

“Ha ha.” Phil said sarcastically. 

“Don’t rush your recovery.” 

“Is that concern again?”

“No, it’ll just be a nice break for me from you talking about... Lord of the Flies.” 

“The Lord of the _Rings_.” Phil corrected. 

Peter waved his hand dismissively. “Same thing.” 

“It’s really _not_ the same thing.” Phil said. “Lord of the Flies is a real world Robinsonade about children who are stranded on an island and then they kill each other while The Lord of the Rings is a fantasy adventure that takes place in Middle Earth and it’s about a group of Hobbits, led by Frodo, and the wizard, Gandalf, who have to travel all the way to Mordor to get rid of the One Ring, which is sought by the evil lord Sauron-“

“I’m going to stop you there.” Peter said. 

“Any particular reason?” 

“No, I just want to stop you.”

“Is this on the news?” 

“Why would it be?” Peter asked. “People get stabbed every day. And you aren’t dead so you won’t make the obituaries.” 

“So JB doesn’t know?” 

“JB doesn’t know you exist.” Peter said. ‘_I’d prefer it to stay that way_,’ he thought. 

Phil shrugged. “Well, I‘ll be back in work before you know it.” 

“I-I’m glad that you’re okay, Phil.” Peter said. “But let’s not get _too_ soppy.” 

* * *

Malcolm was awake when Linda called him in floods of tears. He couldn’t make out what she was saying; he was tired from the chemo. But with the help of Moira, Malcolm made it up to the hospital and the ICU. 

He was there when the Catholic chaplain came to give Jamie last rites. As an atheist, he didn’t really pay much attention to it, but he knew that Jamie’s Catholic faith was important to him. He couldn’t help but think that it should have been him in Jamie’s spot.

He was there when Jamie’s life support was turned off. He stood up from his wheelchair and held Jamie’s hand and stroked what clumps were left of his hair as best he could with the bulky halo traction in the way. 

He was there when his best friend died. He saw the blips on the heart monitor get more erratic and then stop completely in a flatline. 

He was there when the doctor called the time of death, still with his fingers entwined in Jamie’s hair, unable to process the reality of the situation. 

He stayed with Linda and was a shoulder for her to cry on. In any other circumstance, it would have been nice to have someone not notice the cancer. But these weren’t ordinary circumstances. They were the worst possible circumstances that Malcolm could have ever imagined, bar five-all of which had happened to him already. 

He was there when the porters came to take Jamie away to the morgue. That definitely _shouldn’t_ have been Jamie on that trolley. Malcolm would have given anything in that moment to swap his life for Jamie’s. Sure Jamie would have been quadriplegic, but that was infinitely preferable to dead and Jamie would have been happy with his family. 

Malcolm clenched his jaw and his fist, which collided with the wall. He didn’t notice his hand was already broken as he kept punching the wall over and over. He was stopped and pulled back to reality by Linda. He dropped down to the floor and let out a pained wail. His best friend was dead and gone. He hadn’t felt this bad since his mother died. Elaine. _Maisie_. 

Linda helped Malcolm down to A&E, where he stayed. Thinking what he could have said or done differently. What he could have done so that Jamie could have lived. 

* * *

That night, Malcolm lay down on the sofa and watched, but not really watched, the telly. His right arm was encased in a cast and bandages and held to his body in a sling, but he didn’t care. The emotional pain hurt far worse than the physical pain ever could. Every bone in his body could have been broken in that moment and still all he would care about would be Jamie’s death. 

“Malcolm.” Moira crouched down on the floor next to him. “I’m worried about you. You haven’t said a word today.” 

Malcolm looked away from Moira’s face. 

“I mean it.” She said, leaning in to where his gaze was. “I’m worried you’re going to go back to your old ways. That when I’m in bed tonight, you’re going to open up a bottle of my wine and drink it. Or call one of the coke dealers you know-Malcolm, look at me when I’m talking to you.” 

Malcolm had turned his head away and was looking at the ceiling. 

“Shall I call Alastair?” Moira asked. “Or your sponsor?” 

Malcolm sighed in response. 

“Fine.” Moira stood up. “I’m calling Alastair Campbell _and_ I’m calling your sponsor. And you know what? _You_ can speak to them.” 

Malcolm stayed lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His life was falling apart around him.   


* * *

(August 2003) 

“So I’m terminated, just like that?” Alastair said. 

He was sitting at his desk in his office at Number 10 with Malcolm looking at him all hard. 

“Yeah. Just like that.” Malcolm said. “Look, Alastair, a man died-“

“I fucking _know_ a man died, don’t I? I fucking gave evidence at the inquiry.” 

“So don’t you think it’s better to resign now?” Malcolm shrugged. “Rather than have the press hound you out later?” 

“I _am_ the fucking press, Malcolm Tucker and I am your fucking _boss_.” Alastair said. 

“Erm... no, actually, you aren’t. Malcolm said. 

“What?” 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you see Tony, well he got your letter of resignation earlier.” 

Alastair’s eyes widened as he realised what was being said to him. “What.”

“Yeah. I read it too. You know, while I was writing it.” Malcolm shrugged. “It was very well written. Brought tears to my fucking eyes and I had a fucking lump in my throat.” 

“You fucking-“

“Ah. No. You’re a _civilian_ now, remember.” 

“You don’t have what it takes to do my job, Tucker.” Alastair slammed his ID badge on the table. “This job will fucking _kill_ you. You will have no time for your fucking kids or fucking your wife.” 

“Good thing I don’t have kids or a wife and the job’s not going to me, then isn’t it?” Malcolm said. The words stung to say. But it was true to an extent. He didn’t have any kids, his daughter was dead. He didn’t have a wife, she was dead too. 

“Who’s the job going to then?” Alastair asked. 

Malcolm scoffed. “Fucking Steve Fleming the fucking drip.” 

“Fuck him.” Alastair said. “And fuck you too, Malcolm Tucker, for making me do this, after all I’ve done for you” 

“You’re lucky you’re not in more trouble with your Dodgy Dossier, Alastair.” Malcolm said. “You’ve got blood on your hands already and I can only say that it’s going to get a lot worse.” 

“Like you’re innocent in all of this too.” Alastair said. “I’m not the one who got drunk and fucking high on fucking drugs and melted down on fucking David Frost’s show.” 

“You want to know what fucking happened there, Alastair?” Malcolm asked challengingly. “You know was married and my wife’s fucking dead. And you know what else? You know what I _haven’t_ told you? I had a daughter-_had_. She’s dead too. That’s all fucking true, you can check with my old editor, Peter White.” 

“Of the-“

“Yep. And it’s not like _you’re_ innocent either in getting drunk and having _very_ public meltdowns yourself.” 

Alastair stopped and ran a hand through his hair. 

“This _stays_ with us.” Malcolm said, wiping his eye. He still didn’t like to think about it-it was raw and painful. “Or I tell everyone about that time you went in fucking _blackface_ for Gordon Brown’s Halloween party.” 

Alastair nodded. “Course.” 

“Now get out of here and publicly say you’re resigning.” Malcolm said. 

* * *

(August 2011) 

Malcolm opened the front door to Alastair Campbell. One of the many, _many_ people he’d had fired over the course of his career. 

“Malcolm.” Alastair greeted as he stepped inside. “It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you since you had me fired.” 

Malcolm shrugged and nodded.

“Not speaking are you?” Alastair asked. 

Malcolm shrugged again.

“What happened there?” Alastair pointed to the cast on Malcolm’s arm. 

“He punched a wall in the hospital right after Jamie passed.” Moira said. “He hasn’t spoken since then.”

“Jamie? Who’s Jamie?” 

“MacDonald.” 

“Oh my god.” Alastair exclaimed as he sat down in an armchair. “I remember it being in the news he was in a car crash. I didn’t expect it to be that bad.”

“It’s not been on the news yet. I think his family are making the statement today that he’s passed.” Moira said. 

“Oh Malcolm.” Alastair tried to put his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, only Malcolm moved away and sat down on the sofa.

“Malcolm’s been having a tough time recently.” Moira sat down next to Malcolm and put her hand on his unbroken hand. “In November, he was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive cancer. He caught sepsis and spent almost two weeks in a coma around Christmastime and three weeks in intensive care. He only just came out of hospital a few weeks ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear this.” Alastair said. It sounded genuine. 

Malcolm stared unblinking at Alastair. He made no attempt at movement either, save for some slight swaying as he breathed. 

“Do you mind me asking which cancer you have, Malcolm?” Alastair asked. 

“He doesn’t mind, do you, Malcolm?” Moira gently nudged Malcolm’s arm to no response. “Sorry, he appears to have shut down. But he’s got Leukaemia. It’s in remission now and he’s back in work part time, but he still has maintenance chemotherapy to keep the cancer in check and stop it coming back.” 

”So why did you call me?” Alastair asked. 

“I’m afraid that he’s going to go back to his old ways.” Moira said. 

“His old ways being the sleeping pills, the speedballs, the excessive drinking and the cocaine.” Alastair nodded. 

“I can’t call Malcolm’s alcoholic sponsor, he refuses to speak. So I called you.” Moira said. ”Because it was you that initially got Malcolm the help he needed.” 

Alastair shifted in his seat. “I called an ambulance when he overdosed, yes, but-“

“No, Alastair.” Moira said. “Yes, you called an ambulance. But you used your powers of spin for good and kept his drug and alcohol problems out of the public, even though Malcolm’s meltdown was live on telly and _literally_ on David Frost. You stayed with him when he was having his stomach pumped. You sat at his side when he was comatose. You got him into rehab. You got him the mental care that he needed.” 

“Because I know what it’s like to be on Malcolm’s end.” Alastair said, looking at Malcolm, who was now looking at his socks. “It’s not fun. It’s horrible. What happened to Malcolm was horrible. Your brother died in 1985. His daughter died in 1989. His wife miscarried four more children. She died in 1998. Your parents both died suddenly in 2000. And now in 2011, his best friend’s dead. He probably feels a bit of survivor’s guilt, being the sick one and yet still alive while Jamie was the healthy one and he’s dead. Am I right, Malcolm?” 

Malcolm raised his head to look at Alastair, wearing and almost sheepish expression. 

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Alastair said. “There’s not much I can say if you won’t talk to me.”

Malcolm shrugged and looked down at his feet. He couldn’t speak. The pain was just too great. It was searing in his chest, leaving him breathless. The grief was weighing down on his shoulders, wrapping around his neck and choking him. 

“It’s okay to cry.” Alastair said. “You _should_ cry. This has been a shock to you-“

Malcolm looked up and glared at Alastair. How dare Alastair Campbell tell him how he should be feeling? Alastair never knew _him_. He’d only ever heard of _him_. Which isn’t the same thing as being best friends for nearly twenty years. 

Malcolm stood up and walked out of the room. Every time _his_ name was spoken was like a knife in the gut. The emotional pain was hurting far more than the cancer treatment ever did physically. He made it up the stairs, into his bedroom and locked the door. He just wanted to be alone. 

On the dresser, there was a framed photo and he picked it up. It was him and Jamie in the 90s, back when they were both working for the Glasgow Herald and had known each other for about two years. He smiled at the mess that was their hair. Malcolm with his shoulder length, curly brown hair. Jamie with his weird Gallagher haircut. Malcolm with his guitar strapped to his back. Jamie holding aloft his drumsticks. Both men looked happy, even though they’d both lost children and Malcolm was popping pills.

Malcolm found himself got so caught up in scrutinising their 90s fashion that he briefly forgot that he was now living in a world where Jamie MacDonald no longer existed. Then his heart sank. He put the photo frame back down. 

He sat down on the floor and pulled some boxes from under his bed. Those boxes contained special memories to him. He began digging through the boxes for photos and rested back against his wall as he looked through them. 

Jamie smoking outside in the snow. Jamie and Linda dancing at Christmas. Linda and Elaine sharing a bottle of wine. Jamie with a pair of crutches and Malcolm behind him grinning with panda eyes and a broken nose. Jamie and Malcolm drunkenly singing karaoke at a pub in Edinburgh. Jamie, Malcolm, Linda and Elaine at Edinburgh Castle. Malcolm and Jamie performing with their band at a small venue. Jamie with his arm around Elaine who was bald from chemotherapy-both smiling. Malcolm, Jamie and Linda drunk at Glasgow’s Hogmanay celebrations.

Malcolm remembered most of these incidents. They were all from 1995. The trip to Edinburgh was in August. Jamie smoking was in February. Christmas was... well, it was Christmas. Linda and Elaine drinking wine was a celebration that Jamie and Linda put their adoption application in. Jamie and Malcolm at the emergency room was from April when they’d been in a car accident on their way to a job. The band photo from October. Jamie and Elaine was from November that year. Hogmanay, that was New Year, or rather, just before.

Malcolm wiped his eyes. He would give anything to be back in any one of those photos. He pulled his knees up to his chest and carried on looking at the photos. 

Jamie with Ellie. Jamie on his first day of work in Downing Street. Jamie and Malcolm from two Christmases ago. Jamie and Malcolm in New York. Malcolm at Disneyland Paris with his niece and nephew and Jamie and Linda and their kids. Disneyland Paris again in front of the castle. 

Tears were flowing now, but it took Malcolm a while to realise he was crying. He missed his Wee Jamie. And nothing would ever be the same again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had this written out a long time ago, but life’s been happening and I couldn’t be bothered to edit it.   
I hope everyone’s been keeping safe and washing their hands regularly.   
The idea that Phil fainted and caused a panic was just funny to me and a bit more like the calm before the storm. At the end of the day, this fic, angsty as it is, is based on a comedy. Even if nothing else in this chapter is funny.   
There might not be so much funny stuff next chapter either. Sorry about that.


	11. Somebody To Heal

Malcolm had never been to a Catholic funeral before. He gladly would take it back too, if it meant that Jamie was still alive. It didn’t seem right. Malcolm had been the one with the rare and aggressive cancer and Jamie had been the healthy one. That car wreck had really come out of nowhere. And now Jamie was dead. 

Nearly everyone Malcolm knew was at the funeral. The cabinet. Advisors. Journalists. Members of the security team. Tom himself. Even some Tories, LibDems and SNP had turned up to show their respects. Jamie’s mother and father. His wife and their kids. 

Jamie had been the only child of the MacDonalds. Though he had children, they were all adopted. The genetic line had ended with him. 

Malcolm spent the funeral on autopilot. Easy since he was being pushed around in a wheelchair. He couldn’t take anything in. This time it wasn’t because he was tired. It was because his brain wouldn’t let him process the fact that his best friend was dead. That he’d never see Jamie ever again. 

It just wasn’t right. 

Some of the politicians and press stayed on for the funeral reception, mostly the Labour politicians, but a few others as well. Malcolm knew all of them. Even Speaker John Bercow put in a solemn appearance. 

Linda stood up in front of everyone and cried, speaking of Jamie and his life. Their children. His chosen career. 

Then came Malcolm’s time to speak. He stood up from his wheelchair and went in front of everyone, ready to eulogise his dead best friend. That didn’t feel right. It should be _Jamie_ eulogising _him_. 

“James MacDonald, for twenty years, was my closest friend.” Malcolm said, speaking for the first time in over a week. “He wasn’t a very _good_ friend. I mean I wasn’t a good friend either. But we were the best the other had. I remember the first time we met. It might surprise some of you to know that we didn’t actually get on. I thought he was an irritating god botherer. What was I supposed to think when the first things he said to me were criticising my hairstyle-which was awful, I’ll admit now-and my atheism.”

* * *

(May 1992)

Malcolm walked into the offices of the Glasgow Herald. It was his first day working for them and his first day doing journalism in Scotland since he’d spent the beginning of his career on Fleet Street. He didn’t care that he’d been making a name for himself there. He just had to be away from London. 

Malcolm had been assigned a desk and sat at it. He took out his notebook and pen and set them out on his desk, running his hand through his wild curly hair. It didn’t used to be as wild as it was. He just couldn’t be bothered getting a haircut. 

“A didnae ken it waur possibil fur a white man tae hae an Afro.” 

Malcolm turned to see a man around his age with his brown hair styled to resemble Kurt Cobain’s. 

“Isnae an Afro.” Malcolm patted his hair. 

“Jewfro.” The man leaned in. “Are ye Jewish?” 

“A’m nithin.” Malcolm said. “There isnae god.” 

“Hoo fuckin daur ye.” The man slammed his palm on Malcolm’s desk. “There is a god. An he disnae lyke ye. Ye’ll go richt tae hell, ye ken?” 

“James, stop harassing the new guy.” One of the journalists said from behind his desk.

“Fuck you.” The man now known to be James said. “I’ll harass whoever the fuck I want, yeah?”

“James.” The editor came from his office. “This guy’s come from Fleet Street, yeah. He’s a fucking asset to this paper. I can dump you quicker than it takes for me to snap my fucking fingers. Be nice.” 

James glowered at the editor, but sat down at his desk, which was next to Malcolm’s. “Yer fae Fleet Street.” He said. “La-di-fuckin-da. Bet ye went tae fuckin Oxbridge aye? Fuckin pish.”

“University o Glasgae.” Malcolm said. “A’m fae Glasgae. Went tae scuil in Glasgae. Moved tae London. Noo A’m back in Glasgae.” 

“Sae yer a Weegie.” James folded his arms. “Weegie bastard.” 

“Yer fae here.” Malcolm said. 

“A’m nae posh like ye.” James said. 

“A’m nae posh!” Malcolm snapped. “A waur a wee bairn in Gorbals. A grawn up there. Ye neer caa me ‘posh’ agen.”

“Aye. Wee Gorbals.” James nodded. “A’m Jamie. MacDonald. Na James.”

“Malcolm Tucker.” He said. “Neer caa me ‘Wee Gorbals’ agen aither.” 

“Why?” Jamie, not James, asked. 

“Yer smaa than me.” Malcolm said. 

Jamie narrowed his eyes. “A’m gonnae fuckin-“

“Yer gonnae do fuck aw.” Malcolm leaned over to Jamie. “Noo yer gonnae wrap it afore ye getting skelped.” 

“Haud yer whisht!” Jamie snapped. “Fuck off!”

“Ye can fuck off!” Malcolm stood up. “Yer a wee shite.”

“James, shut the fuck up!” A female journalist shouted from across the room. She stood up at her desk. “Unless he wannae get intae his troosers!” 

“Fuck off!” Jamie shook his head. “I’m married, Jules!” He put his hand up and flashed her the V sign. 

“Yer married!” Jules walked over to Jamie’s desk. “Ye trained tae be a priest afore ye joined us.” 

“Don’t get involved with his dramas, Julie.” Another journalist said. He had a Scottish accent, but he definitely wasn’t from Glasgow or around there. He sounded more like he was from Edinburgh. 

“That a fuckin accusation?” Jamie asked, narrowing his eyes. “A love ma wife.” 

“Waur jist two years ago ye waur tryin tae get in my skirt.” Jules said. 

“A love Linda.” Jamie said. 

“Hey!” The editor shouted, appearing at his door. “Back to work! All of you!” 

Jules glowered at Jamie and went back to her desk. 

Malcolm sat down at his desk and made some notes in his notebook. He glanced over at Jamie, who was doing the same. 

“Sae ye used tae be a priest?” Malcolm asked. “Whitfor ye be a journalist noo?” 

“Acis A wanted tae.” Jamie said. “Whitfor ye be a journalist?” 

“Acis...“ Malcolm paused. Why did he want to be a journalist? He wanted to help people and raise a voice to working class issues. People who don’t typically get a voice. “A wanted tae.” 

Jamie nodded, accepting Malcolm’s answer. “Us are goin fur swally efter.” 

“Yer payin.” Malcolm said.

* * *

(August 2011)

“But by the end of the day, we’d bonded. Mainly over a beer. We saw each other nearly every day after that. And by the time I’d left to work on the former PM’s campaign, we’d become good friends because we’d survived through a lot together.” Malcolm carried on. “Jamie stayed in Glasgow, but I went to London. I went to Number 10. We stayed friends. Called each other. But of course I had less time for him. But still after my parents both passed... Jamie knew that something was wrong.“

* * *

(August 2000) 

Malcolm opened his front door to Jamie, who could instantly tell something was wrong. 

“I was just down in London and thought I’d come and see you.” Jamie said with a frown. “You’re looking a bit...” 

“I’m not drunk” Malcolm insisted. His behaviour said otherwise. 

“See... I think you are.” Jamie said. “You’re drunk. Drunk as a skunk. You need to stop this.” 

“Stop what? I’m fine. I’m just... I’m fucking fine, mate.” 

Jamie pushed past Malcolm. “You’re _not_ fine. Your wife died. Your parents died. You _aren’t_ coping.”

He froze when he saw a suspicious looking white powdery substance split up into lines on Malcolm’s dining table. Also suspicious looking items were a razor blade and a rolled up five pound note.

“Is that what I think it is?” Jamie asked emotionlessly, pointing at the substance. 

Malcolm rubbed his nose. “What?”

“You’ve taken cocaine.” Jamie said. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Your nose is runny.”

Malcolm rubbed his nose again. “I... have a cold.”

Jamie noticed Malcolm’s twitching muscles. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t ask you if you were fine.” 

“I’m fucking fine!” Malcolm shouted. 

“Bollocks!” Jamie shouted back. “You’re in pain! You’re drinking to cope! Now you’re on cocaine! The Class-A fucking shit!”

“I’m not on any fucking drugs, Jamie!” Malcolm roared. “I’m not on fucking drugs. My wife fucking died but you know what? I’m fucking fine, mate! I’ve got a fucking good job, right, working for fucking Tony Blair. I’m in the fucking government now. I’m in the loop, mate-I _am_ the fucking loop!”

“Malc-“

“No.” Malcolm took a step back from Jamie. No you’re just... you’re trying to get me fired.” 

“I’m not-“

“You want to replace me. You’re fucking Satan or something.” Malcolm rubbed his nose again and looked down to see blood. “You’re trying to fucking kill me or something, yeah? Get me fired and kill me so you can usurp my fucking job.” 

Jamie said nothing. He was too in shock at the erratic behaviour of his friend. His friend who was drunk and had taken cocaine. His friend who was wearing dirty clothes and probably hadn’t washed for a few days. His friend who was tweaking out, had dilated pupils, a bloody nose and blood smeared on his cheek. 

“Get the fuck out of my house.” Malcolm said. He physically pushed Jamie backwards, knocking him over. 

“What the fuck, Malcolm Tucker?” Jamie snapped. He pulled himself from the floor. “Jesus. You’re fucking paranoid.”

“I’M FINE!” Malcolm screamed in Jamie’s face. 

Jamie swallowed the urge to scream back in Malcolm’s face. After all, Malcolm wasn’t being rational. He very much doubted at that moment that Malcolm was even there. 

“You need help, mate.” 

“Get out!” Malcolm shouted. He rubbed his nose again. 

Jamie nodded. “Fine.” He walked towards the front door and opened it. He turned around to see his friend before he left. “I hope you see that you need help. Or your job will be gone. And I won’t be the one taking it.” 

Malcolm threw a beer bottle at the door, causing Jamie to duck behind the door as he closed it. 

“Jesus.” Jamie muttered. 

Malcolm looked at the powder on the table that was definitely cocaine. He took the fiver from the table and rolled it up again.

* * *

(August 2011)

“I wasn’t willing to admit it at the time, but something was wrong. And when I did finally admit it... Jamie was there. When I was promoted to Director of Communications for the government, I hired Jamie on as a Media Advisor.” Malcolm frowned. “I actually hired a lot of Scots now that I think about it.” He shook his head. “But Jamie was my second in command. We had a lot of arguments about what was best. And when I say a lot, I mean _a lot_. There was a period in 2007 where we didn’t talk to each other for about half a year. Bringing it up now is still a sore point-_was_. _Was_ still a sore point.” 

Malcolm sighed. He’d forgotten himself again. As much as he didn’t want it to be true, Wee Jamie was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. 

“The point is...” Malcolm looked down at his cue cards. He knew he was crying and he didn’t want to start speaking because people would know that he was crying and _Malcolm Tucker did not cry in front of people_. He cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. “I’m going to miss my... friend.” 

* * *

“Have something to eat, Malcolm.” Moira put a paper plate with some crisps on it and a small plastic cup with water in it down on the table in front of her brother. “They’re plain.” 

“No.” Malcolm pushed the plate away. 

“At least have a drink of water.” Moira said. 

“No.” Malcolm said. 

“Malcolm. You have to eat.” Moira sat down next to him. “They’ll put you back on a feeding tube if you don’t eat.”

“Don’t care.” 

“You do care.” 

Malcolm said nothing and looked down at the table. 

Moira put her arm around him. “Hey. It’s okay to cry.” She said. “This _is_ a funeral. Jamie _was_ your friend.” 

“Yeah. He _was_.” Malcolm said, slightly aggressively. 

“Malcolm, are you okay?” Nicola asked, walking over to the siblings. 

Malcolm nodded. “Fine.” He lied. “Nic’la, have you ever met my sister, Moira?”

“I don’t think I have-“

“This is her.” Malcolm said, trying to push her off him, but not having the strength. 

“Oh. I didn’t know Malcolm had a sister. He doesn’t tell me anything.” Nicola said. 

“He doesn’t tell _me_ anything either.” Moira said. “Even when he told me he had cancer I didn’t believe it.” 

“I don’t think any of us in government did either.” Nicola said. “Even though my department all saw him faint while on the job-“

“Alright. No need to talk about what happened last November.” Malcolm grumbled. “That was months ago. And Nic’la, if you didn’t think I had relatives, where did you think the finger paintings on my office walls came from?” 

“I assumed you had kids.” Nicola said, sitting down opposite Malcolm. 

“I had _a_ kid.” Malcolm said. 

Moira squeezed Malcolm’s arm. “You don’t have to-“

“She’s dead.” 

Nicola blinked, clearly not having taken in the information. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a dead daughter.” Malcolm said. 

“What?!” Nicola exclaimed. 

“And my wife. Both our parents. And our brother too.” Malcolm continued. “And now my best friend. I’m a _curse_, Nicola.” 

Nicola stared at Malcolm. He didn’t fully pronounce her name often. It had to be serious for that. 

“You are _not_ a curse, Malcolm.” Moira said. 

“I’ve killed everyone else and now my own body’s trying to kill me.” 

“I’m alive. Ellie’s alive. Keir’s alive.” Moira said. “And Dan-Dan’s alive too.” 

“Fucking Dan.” Malcolm said. “Dan’s a stupid fuck, Moira. I’ve never liked the guy. Probably cheats too, the cheating fucking bastard.” 

“I get it. You need space. But there’s no need to badmouth my husband.” Moira stood up and walked away. 

Nicola followed suit. 

“Malcolm,” Julius approached eating cake with a plastic spork from a paper plate, “I heard swearing.” 

“Of course you did.” Malcolm sighed and slouched back in his chair. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Peachy.” Malcolm smiled sarcastically. 

“Only I heard something about a, and I quote, cheating bastard.” 

“You.” 

Julius chuckled sarcastically. “Yes, very funny, Malcolm.” 

“What are you doing here, you baldy bastard?” Malcolm asked. 

“As I am observing, Malcolm, you don’t have any hair yourself.” 

“Yeah? You said this before, as I recall and my answer is the same now as it was then; my hair will grow back because it’s gone from chemo, not male pattern fucking baldness.” Malcolm said. “Now what are you doing here?” 

“I’m paying my respects to James’ family-“

“Like you even cared about Jamie.” 

“I care enough, Malcolm, I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“I swear if I wasn’t so fucking exhausted right now, I’d punch you right in the nose.” 

“You have a cast on your dominant hand.” Julius said. 

“All the harder for punching you with.” Malcolm said. 

“I notice Leukaemia hasn’t made you any more humble.” Julius said. “I’m also noticing that there’s something bothering you.”

“Some_one_.” Malcolm corrected. “You.” 

“I can tell when I’m not wanted-“

“If you could tell that, you wouldn’t have come up to me in the first place.” Malcolm said

“Now fuck the fuck off.” 

Julius did as he was told, mainly because he didn’t want to be seen, as a Labour Peer, to be publicly arguing with a sick man with cancer. It wouldn’t look good for his image. 

Malcolm moved the cup of water and put his arms on the table, resting his head on them like he was ten years old and sleeping in his history lesson because he stayed up all night recreating scenes from Doctor Who with his toy army men and Daleks all over again. 

“Malcolm?” 

Malcolm didn’t bother to lift his head. He knew that voice anywhere; that was the voice of his PA, Sam. “Yeah?” He grumbled. “Come to ask me if I’m alright?” 

“I know you aren’t.” Sam said as she sat down next to him. “I liked Jamie too. He wasn’t _so_ bad, once you got used to him. I mean, I know you knew him longer then I did...” She sighed. “You’re not the only one going through a rough time right now. A lot of us are. Nicola’s marriage-it’s completely fallen apart.”

“How do you know?” Malcolm asked, raising his head. 

“I _know_.” Sam said. “Phil Smith-“

“Peter Mannion’s idiot advisor?” 

“Yeah, him.” Sam nodded. “He was stabbed last week.” 

“Is he okay?” 

“He’s fine.” 

“Then that’s what he gets for being a massive fucking Tory.” 

“Malcolm, you do know that there’s ‘massive fucking Tories’ here at this reception, don’t you?” Sam asked. 

“I know _everyone_ at this reception. I can safely say fuck all the Tories.” Malcolm said. 

Sam put a small card on the table in front of Malcolm. “Cal Richards told me to give you this.” 

“Why didn’t he do it himself?” Malcolm asked. 

“He said something vague about his kid being at school.” Sam said. 

Malcolm opened the envelope to find a condolence card. He opened it up to find it addressed from Cal and his wife and their daughter. That was more than he’d got from most Labour politicians. Those who were supposed to have a heart and a conscience. 

Sam put her hand on Malcolm’s which, thanks to the treatment and his unhealthy weight loss, was barely more than skin and bones. “It’s okay to cry.” 

“‘m fine.” Malcolm said, trying not to cry, just as he’d spent the entire day trying not to cry. 

At a nearby table, Moira had been watching Malcolm and Sam with Nicola. 

“They’re in love, aren’t they?” Moira asked. “Malcolm loves her.” 

“I don’t know.” Nicola shrugged, sounding slightly miffed. “I don’t see them together that often.” 

“It’d be nice for Malcolm to find love again.” Moira said. “He’s been through a lot.” 

“My assistant has a theory that he didn’t get enough cuddles as a child.” Nicola said. 

“Oh no, he did.” Moira said. “_I_ was the forgotten child. Malcolm was the one Mam and Dad worried over constantly. He was such a pushover. Always bullied.” 

“Malcolm Tucker? A _pushover_?” Nicola asked incredulously. “Who got bullied?!”

“Yeah, that scar on the side of his head, that was from when he got pushed down the stairs by his childhood bully and fractured his skull.” Moira said. 

Nicola frowned as she tried to imagine _the_ Malcolm Tucker ever being a little weakling. “I can’t-that’s just a really weird thought to me.” 

“He’s not had an easy life.” Moira said.

“Then it’s no wonder he’s turned out the way he has.” Nicola said. 

* * *

Two months had passed since Jamie’s funeral. It was Malcolm’s birthday; he had made it to fifty-two, an age that looked extremely unlikely that he’d reach last Christmas. He was still receiving regular chemotherapy. He was still tired. He still relied on a walking stick or a wheelchair much of the time. But while his broken hand had healed, his broken heart remained broken. He only seemed to miss Jamie more and more with each passing day. 

A lot had changed since Malcolm’s last birthday. Too much, in fact. This time last year, he wasn’t sick-well, he was, his symptoms just weren’t bad enough for him not to be able to dismiss. This time last year he had only been in one medically induced coma. This time last year Jamie was still around. 

And so Malcolm sat in his office trying to work but just staring straight ahead at the wall, deep in his own thoughts. 

“Malcolm?” Sam shook his shoulder gently to get his attention. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ve been calling you for a while.” Sam said. “You’re needed in the Wales Office.”

“Why, what’s going on?” Malcolm asked. 

“Budgetary concerns-apparently the Welsh Secretary didn’t assign enough money for agriculture and now the Welsh Government is hopping.” 

“Of course they would be, Wales is a nation of fucking farmers and fucking sheepshaggers.” 

“Is there anything bothering you?” Sam asked.

“No. Why?” 

“Only you don’t seem quite here.” 

“It’s just chemo brain.” Malcolm said dismissively. “I’m fine.

Sam nodded, uncertain whether she believed him or not, but she leaned more towards ‘not’. “Okay. Well, after you’ve gone to the Wales Office, Tom wants you to go to DOSAC to get the immigration stats for last quarter.” 

“Can’t Nicola bring them here?” 

“Nicola’s unavailable.” Sam said. “She’s speaking at the Party Conference today-“

“Why wasn’t _I_ invited to that?” Malcolm demanded. 

“Probably because you have cancer, you’re tired and your immune system isn’t working so sending you all the way to Liverpool so you can be around crowds of people who potentially carry infections that could kill you isn’t a very good idea.” Sam said calmly. “Also, last time you were there you ended up on tape causing trouble with the journalists when you threatened to break one of them’s arm off and shove it up their-“

“Yep.” 

“And the time before that, you broke Glenn Cullen’s nose when you punched him in the face.” 

“Yep.” 

“And the time before _that_, you-“

“I know.” 

“They probably don’t want you there.” 

“Way to make me feel better.” Malcolm stood up from his office chair and grabbed his walking stick. “I’m off to the Wales Office. Maybe while I’m on my way I’ll call Angela fucking Heaney and we can sort this fucking mess out by fucking grovelling to the media.” 

With that, he walked out of the door.

* * *

Malcolm was much more tired by the time he arrived in the DOSAC offices. A few Civil Servants were working as a skeleton crew due to it being Party Conference Season, but it was hardly the bustling place it usually was. 

“Malcolm.” Robyn nearly jumped out of her skin. “You... shouldn’t you be at the Labour Party Conference?” 

“Apparently Tom didn’t think sending me to Liverpool was a good idea.” Malcolm said as he took a seat in a nearby office chair. 

“Well, you do... you know.” Robyn shrugged. 

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “I do _what_?” 

“You-you have cancer.” 

“So people keep telling me. I mean, it started with my doctor and look, you’re the most recent person to tell me this. But you’re not a doctor, you’re a fucking Civil Servant. And a useless one at that. Where the fuck’s Terri?” 

“She’s... not working today-“

“Give me the crime stats.” Malcolm said. 

“What?” Robyn asked. 

“Give me the fucking crime stats!” Malcolm demanded. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I was sent here by fucking Tom, yeah. Because he wanted crime stats from this lowly fucking department-“

“Can you just stop fucking swearing, Malcolm-“

“Not until you give me the fucking crime stats!” 

“There is no crime stats.”

“What do you mean? I was fucking sent here for them!” 

“We-we don’t... have... any-“

Malcolm angrily took his phone from his pocket to call up Nicola and demand the crime stats. 

“_Malcolm?_” 

“Ollie, put Nicola on the phone.” 

“_I-I can’t Malcolm, she’s giving a speech-_“

“Put her on the phone.” Malcolm demanded. 

“I_ can leave a message with her and get her to call back after she’s finishe_d.” Ollie offered. 

“This is urgent, Oliver Reeder. I need to talk to her about crime stats.” 

“_But... wait, we were supposed to publish crime stats? Nicola never said to do that_.” 

“Of course she fucking wouldn’t, she couldn’t organise a fucking puss up in a brewery.” 

“_We have the immigration stats though-Robyn’s working she should be able to-_“

Malcolm hung up as quickly as he could as he realised it wasn’t _crime_ stats he was supposed to take to Tom, it was _immigration_ stats. 

“Robyn, could you get me the immigration stats please.” He said, uncharacteristically calmly. 

* * *

Malcolm walked back to Number 10 with one more USB stick when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered the phone. “What?” 

“_It’s just me, Malcolm_.” Nicola said. 

“Right.” Malcolm said. “I made a mistake. It wasn’t crime stats, it was immigration stats.” 

“_Oh, alright. I just thought-_“

“It’s fine.” 

“_Well... happy birthday anyway, Malcolm_.” Nicola said. “_I’ll be back by tomorrow, so don’t do anything stupid and we can just_-“

Malcolm sighed and hung up, shoving the phone back into his pocket. Over on the other side of the road, he thought he spotted someone he knew. He was going to push the button for the toucan crossing to get back to Downing Street, but instead he pressed it to see if it was who he thought it was and once he did cross the road, it didn’t take him that long to catch up. 

“Still got the nerve to hang around here after you crossed the fuckin’ floor?” Malcolm snapped at the man, Glenn, who was trying to send a text on his phone. 

“Jesus, Malcolm!” Glenn struggled with his phone and put it away. He took a proper look at Malcolm and his eyes widened in shock. “Jesus, Malcolm.” 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” 

“I’m not going to bother asking how you are.” Glenn said. “But it was spreading around that you were in a coma-“

“Yep.” 

“Really?” 

“Yep.” 

“Why are you walking around now then?” 

“Because I’m better?” Malcolm shrugged. “Why weren’t you at Jamie’s funeral?” 

“I didn’t know that Jamie had died-“

“Bullshit!” Malcolm shouted. “It was in the news!”

“Shouldn’t you be at the Labour Party Conference right now? Where is it, Liverpool?” 

“They said I couldn’t come this year because of the time I broke your nose.” 

“Really?” Glenn asked. 

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded. “That and the cancer.” 

“What are you doing here then?” 

“My job.” Malcolm said. “Now I’m not going to ask again; why weren’t you at Jamie’s funeral?” 

“I didn’t want to go.” Glenn said. “And something came up with Hugh.” 

“Who?” Malcolm asked. 

“You know, the former Secretary of State for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship?” 

Malcolm frowned as he tried to remember who Glenn was talking about. “Hugh Abbot?”

“Yes. Have you got Alzheimer’s or something?” Glenn asked.

“Chemo brain.” Malcolm replied. “Does he know I have cancer?” 

“_Everyone_ knows, Malcolm, you gave a tell all interview to the Daily Mail.” 

“... Ah yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “I don’t remember that.” 

“Angela Heaney? No?” Glenn shrugged. “How are you still in your job if you can’t remember-“

“I’m working on it.” Malcolm said. “Also you know, my best friend fucking _died_ in August. Show some fucking compassion-“

“It’s hard not to show anything but compassion for you right now, Malcolm.” Glenn said. 

“Compassion is _not_ pity.” 

“I never said it was.” Glenn said. “I’m really sorry about your current situation. It must be really hard.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just cancer.” Malcolm shrugged. 

“It’s not though, is it?” Glenn said. “You’ve lost your friend. You’ve nearly died. That’s traumatic.”

“There’s more trauma to come.” Malcolm said. “I’ve been summonsed for the Leveson Inquiry in January.” 

“So have I.” Glenn said. “They want me as a witness-“

“They want me as a victim.” 

“Wait, you were phone hacked-of course you were.” Glenn shook his head. “The meltdown. I can’t believe I forgot.” 

“There’s something _else_ you’re forgetting too.” 

“Oh yes. It’s the nineteenth, isn’t it. Happy birthday, Malcolm.” 

Malcolm nodded. “I’ll see you at the Leveson Inquiry. If my cancer doesn’t take me first.” 

“But you’re in remission.” 

“Leukaemia moves quickly.” Malcolm said. “Just like I should be as I should have been at Number 10 ages ago.” 

“Okay. Well, you’d better hurry up then.” Glenn said. 

“Yeah, whatever.” Malcolm said dismissively. He walked down the street in the opposite direction to Glenn, stopping in front of the security at Downing Street. As he pulled his ID card out, all hell broke loose. 

Malcolm, now totally depleted of whatever energy he had, collapsed inside Downing Street. In front of the BBC, ITN, Channel 4 and Sky News press cameras. Also there were several other journalists from papers such as The Guardian, The Independent, The Daily Mail, The Telegraph among others, who were there to report on Tom’s upcoming statement regarding the funding mess in the Wales Office. 

Angela Heaney ran over first and asked Malcolm if he was okay-which he was. Security made their way over next while Angela backed up slightly, making notes on her mobile phone; which by now every other journalist also was while the reporters were also doing a running commentary to the cameras, doing their best as the normal political reporters were all down in Liverpool covering the Labour Party Conference. 

Tom was the last to know when he stepped out to make his statement. He dropped his speech and rushed over to Malcolm, who was sitting on the ground being checked over by an aide as another aide called an ambulance. Through all of this, Malcolm insisted that he was fine and pointed out that Tom’s speech was blowing away with the wind. That prompted Tom to run about trying to grab all the papers. 

Angela had turned to recording on her phone, as had a few other journalists, but others were still typing or writing away furiously. Tom managed to collect his speech and was in the middle of awkwardly delivering it when Sam came out and the paramedics came and all attention was once again on Malcolm, who was brought straight to the hospital as a precaution.

* * *

“That was literally the worst fucking thing that’s ever fucking happened to me.” Malcolm said, sitting up in a hospital bed in the ER with his sister by his side. 

“No it wasn’t.” Moira said. 

“Well it was definitely the most _embarrassing_.” Malcolm said, putting his head in his hand. 

“Wouldn’t that be vomiting all over David Frost on live television because you were so high on drugs?” 

“I wasn’t ‘high’, Moira, I overdosed.” 

Moira shrugged. “Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.”

“The press are going to have a fucking field day with this.”

“I think they already have.” 

“Take me home so I can just die of embarrassment in peace.” 

“Malc, you don’t just ‘die’ of embarrassment.” Moira said. 

“Yeah, well I feel like I could right now.” Malcolm sighed. “Fucking Tom. He delivered a speech just fucking fine in Liverpool yesterday then he comes back and drops his fucking speech all over the damn place in front of live fucking cameras-“

“I can’t take you home, you have to stay the night.” 

“But it’s my birthday!” 

“You’ve never liked them before.”

“I like it when I get cake.” Malcolm said. “Who doesn’t like cake?” 

“You haven’t eaten any in a year.” 

“Yeah well one, I haven’t been physically able to and two, it tastes weird to me now. I don’t like it.”

“You just said ‘who doesn’t like cake’ and then answered it with _yourself_.” Moira pointed out. 

“I like oranges too, but the acid burns my mouth.” Malcolm said. “There’s a lot that I used to like but don’t like now.” 

“I hope that changes.” 

“Yeah well we’ll see.” Malcolm said. “Besides, I have a lot of work I need to do.”

“We were talking about _food_.” 

“I was thinking about _work_.” 

“You need to find a more fulfilling job, Malc.” Moira said. “Jamie said that you complain that the job’s left you a husk.” 

“Jamie’s dead.” Malcolm still couldn’t process those two little words and whenever he said them, he couldn’t hear them; it just sounded like a garbled mess to him. 

“He told me back in December.” Moira said. 

“Great.” Malcolm sighed. “That’s just great.” 

* * *

“I’m assuming you’ve seen what’s happened earlier on the telly, eh, Cal?” Stewart asked as he walked into Cal’s office. 

“For FUCK’S...” Cal shouted, despite being on the phone. “I’ll fucking call you back, BE SURE OF THAT!” He turned to Stewart in the doorway. “What the fuck’s going on now?” 

“You haven’t seen the news then?” Stewart asked. “It’s pretty bad. Labour are dying, like a flopping fish-“

“Just tell me what the fuck’s going on, Stewart.” Cal said. “And if you fucking use one of your stupid, cunt-y words, I am going to fucking nail you to my fucking wall and use you as a goddamn FIXTURE!” 

“Okay,” Stewart nodded. “So basically, the Secretary of State for Wales made a big oopsie-“

Cal grunted loudly to express his disapproval. 

“-with budgets for Welsh agriculture and it comes out _during_ their Party conference. The Prime Minister gathers the press to make a statement and while going back to Number 10, Malcolm Tucker collapsed and Tom, well he only goes and drops his speech and it starts blowing about in the wind, so he has to run around like a wally trying to collect it. And all of this happened live in front of live cameras, yeah?” 

“Fuck.” 

“Now I’m thinking, we go after them where it hurts. That would be their incompetent prime minister.” 

“No.” Cal said. 

“But we have a shadow secretary ready to give an interview-“

“I’ve fucking said ‘no’, Stewart.” 

“I don’t mean we have to go after Malcolm Tucker-“

“Going after Tom Davis means going after Malcolm Tucker.” Cal said. “At least on this fucking occasion.”

“So you’re on the government’s side, right? That’s what this is?” 

“_Fuck_ the Labour Party. But Malcolm Tucker is my fucking _friend_. He’s the _one_ Labour person I don’t fucking hate. You said that fucking Tom, he fucking dropped his speech because of Malcolm collapsing.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I saw on Sky News. And I don’t think Kay Burley would lie to me.” 

“Well this isn’t about fucking TOM!” Cal shouted. “This is about Malcolm! Who’s fucking got fucking cancer!” 

“If you can’t take advantage of the opposition when they’re vulnerable-“

Cal waved his hand. “I’m going to fucking fire you on the fucking spot if you carry on like this. I’ve already said fucking ‘no’, you cunt, I’m not going to tucking magically say ‘yes’ if you pester me about it enough-this isn’t a fucking early James Bond film.” 

“I, respectfully, I disagree.” Stewart said. 

“Fuck off.” Cal said. “And don’t you dare fucking come back in the fucking morning. You’re fired, like Sir Alan Sugar would say.”

“Uh... what?” Stewart said, clearly confused. 

“Alright, you’re not fired anymore, but FUCK OFF!” Cal shouted, right in Stewart’s face. 

Stewart nodded. “Yep.” He said. “I’m leaving.” 

“And don’t you fucking dare go after Malcolm Tucker or I will be after your job for fucking real this time I fucking mean it.” 

“Got it.” Stewart scuttled out of the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

“Mr Tucker. We are aware that you are unwell right now so we would like to thank you for being with us today.” 

Malcolm nodded and scratched at his chest where his central line was under his shirt. He was clearly uncomfortable at sitting in a little plastic chair in a little room with people behind him working on computers while Robert Jay questioned him about phone hacking in front of the entire United Kingdom and... the world. He knew that because of his statement, a lot of things he’d previously kept quiet about his past would all come out into the open and he wasn’t sure he wanted that. Well, he definitely didn’t want that, but it was happening. He’d _finally_ been backed into a corner; one that he couldn’t spin his way out of. 

Robert Jay continued. “First thing’s first, I’d like to ask you about your wife.” 

Malcolm leaned towards the little microphone in front of him. “Her name was Elaine. We were happily married from 1980 to her death in 1998 of breast cancer. Which had been diagnosed back in 1995 and, well, it came as a shock. As diagnoses like this do.”

Robert Jay nodded and looked down at the paper he had in front of him; Malcolm’s statement. “On page three, you say that private information regarding your wife’s health was leaked to The News of the World newspaper, something you claim could only have come from phone hacking.” 

Malcolm took a sip of water. “So before I joined Tony Blair’s campaign team back in 1997, I was a high profile print journalist. These jobs sent me around the UK away from my very sick wife and so I always kept my mobile phone on me.” He paused. “We both talked it over and agreed on it, so I had to do it or we’d have no money coming in as Elaine couldn’t work. And sometimes I was for whatever reason unavailable that day so Elaine would leave messages for me on my phone.” 

“You claim these messages were hacked.” Robert Jay said. 

Malcolm nodded. “Yes I do. Because I did _not_ go public with this information. Elaine was a journalist too. She didn’t go public either. We had a close friend who was also a journalist-“

“This would be James MacDonald.” 

Malcolm stiffened at the mention of Jamie’s name. It had been five months since Jamie’s death now and he still wasn’t over it. “I trusted him with my life.” He said, quietly. “He wouldn’t have gone public with this.” 

“And the three of you worked for The Glasgow Herald.” Robert Jay said.

“Yes, but only Jamie-_James_ worked for The Herald at that point.” Malcolm said. “I was working on Tony’s media team and Elaine was on benefits as she wasn’t able to work.” 

“I see.” Robert Jay said. “The messages you claim were hacked,”

“Yeah?” 

“They never actually made it into the newspaper did they?” 

“No.” Malcolm said. 

“How do you know they had the information then?” Robert Jay asked. 

Malcolm ran his hand on his head over what little hair he had. “Well the editor of The News of the World called Alastair Campbell to tell him that he had the information. Alastair made it go away. I was unaware that The News of the World had the information until 2005, when it was first revealed that the paper had been hacking peoples’ phones.” 

Robert Jay nodded and then turned to another page. “Now. Back in early 2001, you acted extremely erratically while you were being interviewed on Breakfast With Frost.” 

Malcolm groaned. 

“This ‘meltdown’ saw you hospitalised and treated for alcohol and drug addictions. Though at the time it was said you had fallen ill with Meningitis.” 

Malcolm sighed. “That’s... _right_.” He said. 

“Can you tell me what drugs you took?” Robert Jay asked.

Malcolm leaned back, slightly further away from the microphone. “I-I took cocaine and heroin... sleeping pills... and I drank.” He said hesitantly. “I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I was in a bad place mentally as of my parents had just died within a few months of each other.” 

“You claim that The News of the World printed a story around the time of your promotion to director of communications which came directly as a result of phone hacking.” 

“As the director of communications, a job requirement is reading the papers. And I couldn’t help but notice my face was plastered on quite a few of the tabloids. Then I noticed messages on my personal phone were missing. Private conversations between my former dealer and myself.” Malcolm explained. 

“You remember the headlines.” Robert Jay said, not asking.

“I don’t remember the headlines exactly-what they said word for word. But they all said that I had a dangerous drug addiction and seemed to be implying that I was either close to death or dying or would run the country into the ground despite the fact that I was not the Prime Minister.” Malcolm paused. “Also I was sober at the time.” He added. 

”How did you react?” Robert Jay asked.

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asked. 

“Well, you’re well known in Westminster for having a temper.” Robert Jay said. “So how did you react.” 

Malcolm shrugged. “I dealt with it.”

“How?” Robert Jay pressed. 

“I rang the editors.” Malcolm explained. “I asked _nicely_ and _persuaded_ them to retract their statements and issue public apologies. Which they did.”

Robert Jay turned the page again. 

However, Malcolm continued. “It shouldn’t be a secret to any Brit older than fifteen that I had an extremely public nervous breakdown, yeah. But I would go so far as to say that The News of the World only caused me harm, leading me to that public breakdown and subsequently demonised me for it and claimed I was some... evil satanic demon because I dared to touch Class-A drugs, which, if I might add, everyone in Westminster also does. Oh the names I could give.” 

Malcolm put his arms on the table and leaned closer to the microphone. “This all happened under the watch of Andy Coulson.” He said. “A man I personally know. And a man who, if Channel 4 Dispatches is to be believed, _personally_ listened to my private information. He may _think_ he knows the level of emotional turmoil I’ve experienced throughout my life. But, he knows _nothing_. And the lack of respect he showed me, as a grieving f-hus-husband and a _person_ is nothing short of astonishing.” 

Robert Jay cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes. Shall we continue?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone’s had a safe Coronavirus lockdown and is continuing to keep safe.  
Though I’ve had these last chapters all written out, lack of productivity during lockdown led me to not edit them and so I mainly spent the time playing Animal Crossing and scrolling through/making TikTok videos even though I’m 26.  
Okay onto the notes.  
See, I come from a Catholic family (father’s side) and I could never tell you what they do during a Catholic funeral because I’ve never been to one because I hate my family. I know there’s something to do with burning incense and you can’t do eulogies because all funeral ceremonies have to be performed the same... but that’s about it. If my family hadn’t disowned me for being autistic, I’d probably know more, but hey ho, that’s what happened.  
Moving on.  
John Bercow is Speaker because he was speaker that time in real life. He was a good Speaker and I honestly miss him.  
Malcolm having a mini-breakdown.  
Julius eating because when isn’t he? He’s just always either eating or looking at food and honestly I’m here for it.  
A little moment with Sam.  
Re: ‘sheepshaggers’, I get to say that; I’m Welsh.  
Liverpool did host the Labour Party Conference in 2011. Though it was in September rather than October.  
Malcolm being nice to Robyn when he realised he was in the wrong.  
And again to Nicola.  
A little chat with Glenn because I realise that Malcolm and Glenn haven’t had any screen time at all and they’re like almost friends. A quick mention of Hugh because why not.  
And I completely understand the mood whiplash here, which is why I thought it was funny. You might not find it funny, but just know that I did.  
Tom would be back at Downing Street because the leader speaks on a Tuesday, the day before the end of Party Conference, and the events of Malcolm’s birthday happen on a Wednesday, the end of Party conference, which is also why Nicola said that she’d be back tomorrow. Parliament wouldn’t be as the Tories would have their Party Conference the next week and there’s always a three week break during Conference Season.  
Stewart and Cal, again because I thought it would be funny.  
Kay Burley has been the afternoon newsreader for Sky News for the past, I think eleven years now.  
If you’re American, Sir Alan Sugar is the Apprentice host here and he is the one who says ‘you’re fired’ and though he is a massive, raging Tory, fortunately he is not a politician and thus can not be Prime Minister. Only career politicians here can be Party leaders and they have to be backed up by most of their Party and elected by the... electorate against about 60 other parties. It’s still always going to be between Labour and the Tories though.  
Ah. The Leveson Inquiry. I hadn’t forgotten.  
Robert Jay was the lawyer who did the questioning at the Leveson Inquiry.  
I have implied the former PM to be Tony Blair earlier in the story, only I’ve outright said it here. That’s my headcanon and the hill I’m willing to die on here.  
So that’s it. Story’s over guys. Hope you enjoyed it!  
But don’t worry. There’s a slightly emotionally devastating epilogue still to come.


	12. Epilogue

(October 2019)

There were few things Malcolm Tucker hated to be defined as.

A cancer victim. So he’d had two bouts of Leukaemia. That didn’t make him a victim. It made him a survivor. 

A drug abuser or a junkie. He’d rather forget that part of his life. 

An alcoholic. He was now sober and didn’t touch alcohol. 

A father. Since he’d come out with his story, people were labelling him as one, but he’d never had the chance to be one. He didn’t consider himself to be a father. 

A criminal. He’d never been to jail, but he’d still had probation-so what? He was _not_ a hardened criminal. Alastair Campbell had committed _way_ worse crimes in the lead up to the Iraq War than he had and he’d got away with it. 

He was, however, more than happy to be defined as a Remainer. 

He hated Brexit and everything it stood for. Everything it meant. He knew that Jamie would have voted to remain. Elaine would have voted to remain. Maisie. His daughter who would have been thirty in March. She would have voted to remain too. 

Malcolm Tucker was a person who’d lost a _lot_. He’d lost his brother to AIDS, his daughter to stillbirth, his unborn children to miscarriage, his wife to cancer, his parents to cardiac arrest and a stroke, his health to cancer, his best friend to a car crash, his brother-in-law to a hit and run, his job to a new Party leader, his freedom to Alastair Campbell and his spin and his sister and niece and nephew to Glasgow. 

Yet he still found a way to keep going. He had to. He couldn’t stop. He was like a shark. If he stopped, he would feel the pain and then the pain would kill him. He couldn’t give up. So he didn’t. 

He put his hands in his jeans pockets and headed out into London. 

It was his birthday. He was sixty today. It was a Saturday. There was a huge protest for a People’s Vote. Oh and Parliament was sitting. 

“Malcolm.” Alastair Campbell greeted Malcolm in surprise as he arrived at the protest. “You look... unkempt-“

“We both know what you did at the Chilcot Inquiry so spare us both the drama.” Malcolm said. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Protesting.” 

“I didn’t know you could vote.” 

“I never went to jail, though you tried your damn hardest to put me there, didn’t you, Alastair?” Malcolm asked. “Also, it was for a fucking civil matter.” 

Alastair nodded. “Yes, a civil matter.” 

“It should have been _you_, not me.” Malcolm said. “_You_ were the one who dragged us into Iraq. _You_ were the one who was forced to resign after that inquiry when that guy died-“

“Because you drafted my letter of resignation and as I recall, _you_ were the one who doctored the evidence-“

“Because you _physically_ made me!” Malcolm roared. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too.” Alastair said. “Glad to have you with us today though,” he smiled through gritted teeth, “your support is appreciated.” 

Malcolm smirked and flicked the ‘V’ sign in Alastair’s face as he walked in and joined the protest. 

“Malcolm Tucker?”

Malcolm turned around to see Nicola Murray and what looked to be her oldest daughter. 

“That’s an interesting beard you’ve got going on there.” 

Malcolm ran his hand through his scraggly unkempt, although short, beard and shrugged. 

“You look like a hippy.” 

Malcolm adjusted his glasses and looked down at his oversized powder blue jumper, old faded jeans and well worn trainers. “Yeah, well. I lost a lot of weight when I was sick and grew to like wearing oversized clothes.” 

“I meant your hair.” Nicola said, reaching up and putting her fingers through Malcolm’s long and now white and curly hair. 

“My hair came back wrong.“ Malcolm said. “Chemo. And you can stop touching my hair now?” 

“Sorry, it’s just I haven’t seen you in years.” Nicola said. “How are you? I heard you were in jail. I also heard your cancer came back.” 

“I never went to prison. My cancer came back when I was due to be sentenced.” Malcolm replied. “It’s what got me on probation, actually.” 

“And you’re... okay now, right?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm nodded. “Just a round of chemo this time. And a lot of maintenance chemo. And a stem cell transplant from my sister. But I’m _absolutely_ in remission and it hasn’t come back in like... four years.” 

“That’s so good to hear.” Nicola nodded. “I wouldn’t like to lose another friend of mine to that awful disease.” 

“... I’m sorry to hear that.” Malcolm said. 

“Oh, Malcolm, I don’t think you’ve met my daughter, Ella.”

Malcolm remembered all the trouble Ella had caused over the private school thing. Something that he’d caused, but rightly so. What Labour minister would send their kids to private school? But that was over ten years ago now. 

“It’s good to meet you.” Ella said. She’d clearly turned out into a nice young woman. “Mum’s told me a lot about you. Apparently you were falsely imprisoned or something because of the Iraq War.”

“Ah yes. Ella.” Malcolm said. “I heard a lot about you when your mother and I were in government together.”

“_Is_ it true?” Ella asked. “Were you in jail because of Iraq?”

“Uh... it’s a bit more complicated than that.” Malcolm said. “See, I fired the man who took the world into the Iraq War. And he pinned the blame on me. So they tried to send me to prison for _his_ crimes.” 

“You’d rather go to prison for your own crimes.” Nicola said. “Which are many.”

“Aye,” Malcolm nodded, “_many_.”

“Mum said you used to psychologically torture the people who worked in the government.” Ella said. 

“I suppose that could be construed as accurate.” Malcolm said. 

“So you didn’t go to prison in the end then?” Nicola asked. 

“No, because I spent the next year and a half or so in hospital having cancer treatment. Trust me, it was worse the second time around.” 

“But like you said, you’re better now?” Nicola said. 

“You could say that.” Malcolm said. 

“What are you up to these days?” Nicola asked. 

“Well, you know I left politics.” Malcolm said. “I work as a speaker and a counsellor for Action On Addiction. Basically, I go around schools saying ‘drugs are bad’ and I work with addicts, people trying to get clean. It’s... a _personal_ thing for me.“

Nicola nodded. 

“I’ve also done some work with Shelter, Stonewall, SANDS and The Big Issue. What about you?” Malcolm asked.

“Still... still a backbencher.” Nicola said with a shrug. 

“So... you want a People’s Referendum.” Malcolm changed the subject.

“Mum and I both voted Remain.” Ella said.

“What about your dad?” Malcolm asked.

“Not in the picture.” Nicola said. “I divorced James years ago.”

Ella nodded in confirmation.

“Come on.” Nicola said, handing Malcolm a picket sign. “Let’s go and protest.”

“Yep.” Malcolm said as he took the sign from her. “Let’s go and protest.” 

Ella walked ahead of Nicola, who turned back to see Malcolm still standing there in the street.

“Malcolm?” Nicola asked.

“Nic’la, I need a kidney transplant.” Malcolm blurted out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that definitely is it for this story.  
This chapter’s more of a little ‘and where are they now’.  
Yes, Parliament really did sit on Saturday October 19th 2019 (a date Parliament never sits) while a massive People’s Referendum protest with like a million people or something (probably less but idk) marching outside the streets of London. This was all about Brexit because Boris Johnson illegally lied to the Queen to shut down Parliament so there could be no debates and he could force through his egregious no-plan for a No Deal Brexit on Halloween. The actual story is madder than it sounds.  
Yes, people who have criminal records or have been to jail in the UK can vote. If you’re jailed over a civil matter, you can actually vote from prison.  
If you’re wondering how it got from the Leveson Inquiry to the Chilcot Inquiry, well the answer is that we Brits love a good political inquiry. Right now there’s an inquiry going on into bullying accusations against Home Secretary Priti Patel, another on former SNP leader Alec Salmond’s behaviours, another’s been called into the Prime Minister’s handling of the Coronavirus pandemic and there’s calls for another inquiry into Russians tampering with the Brexit vote.  
The other inquiry Malcolm references is the Hutton Inquiry (I told you we love our inquiries) which followed the death of a doctor. The guy that Malcolm said died was that doctor, Dr David Kelly, a UN weapon inspector who committed suicide after Alastair Campbell ’sexed up’ a dossier saying there was WMDs in Iraq when... there wasn’t, but Radio 4’s today Programme said there was and named Alastair Campbell as the one who created the so-called ‘Dodgy Dossier’ and then named Dr Kelly as the source for his dossier information and just google it, it’s batty.  
Malcolm is wearing an oversized blue sweater because my favourite sweater is also blue and oversized and I’m wearing it right now. It’s probably projection, but who’s to say he wouldn’t, especially after S3E8. But his probably wouldn’t say ‘Disneyland’ on it.  
Hair can grow back grey, white and/or curly after chemotherapy. Usually it’s temporary, but sometimes it’s permanent.  
Yep, Malcolm ended up having to have a stem cell transplant after all.  
And Nicola’s friend with Lymphoma? Yeah she died. Although it’s a highly treatable cancer, not everyone gets a happy ending.  
Action On Addiction, Shelter, Stonewall, SANDS and The Big Issue are UK charities I personally support, alongside Toy Like Me (campaigning for disabled representation on kids TV and in toys) National Autistic Society, Girlguiding and Scouts (the latter two I volunteer with) and a few local charities.  
Malcolm and Nicola both voted remain; change my mind.  
Also, I imagine Malcolm as a much more mellowed out person having left politics.  
Also he needs a kidney transplant.


End file.
